THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Kate  Gordon  Moore 


THE  MODERN   DRAMA  SERIES 
EDITED    BY   EDWIN    BJORKMAN 


THE    LONELY    WAY      •      INTERMEZZO 
COUNTESS  MIZZIE  •   BY  ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER 


THE  LONELY  WAY: 

INTERMEZZO: 
COUNTESS  MIZZIE 

THREE  PLAYS  BY 

ARTHUR  SCHNITZLER 


TRANSLATED   FROM   THE  GERMAN 
WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 

EDWIN    BJORKMAN 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

MCMXV 


COPYRIGHT,   19 15,  BY  MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PT 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 

•  • 

vn 

The  Lonely  Wat 

1 

Intermezzo 

139 

Countess  Mizzie 

261 

852909 


INTRODUCTION 

HERMANN  BAHR,  the  noted  playwright  and 
critic,  tried  one  day  to  explain  the  spirit  of 
certain  Viennese  architecture  to  a  German  friend, 
who  persisted  in  saying:  "Yes,  yes,  but  always  there 
remains  something  that  I  find  curiously  foreign."  At 
that  moment  an  old-fashioned  Spanish  state  carriage 
was  coming  along  the  street,  probably  on  its  way 
to  or  from  the  imperial  palace.  The  German  could 
hardly  believe  his  eyes  and  expressed  in  strong  terms 
his  wonderment  at  finding  such  a  relic  surviving  in  an 
ultra-modern  town  like  Vienna. 

"You  forget  that  our  history  is  partly  Spanish," 
Bahr  retorted.  "And  nothing  could  serve  better  than 
that  old  carriage  to  explain  what  you  cannot  grasp  in 
our  art  and  poetry." 

A  similar  idea  has  been  charmingly  expressed  by 
Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal  in  the  poem  he  wrote  in 
1892 — when  he  was  still  using  the  pseudonym  of 
"Loris" — as  introduction  to  "Anatol."  I  am  now  add- 
ing a  translation  of  that  poem  to  my  own  introduc- 
tion, because  I  think  it  will  be  of  help  in  reading  the 
plays  of  this  volume.  The  scene  painted  by  Hof- 
mannsthal might,  on  the  whole,  be  used  as  a  setting 
for  "Countess  Mizzie."  For  a  more  detailed  version 
of  that  scene  he  refers  us  to  "Canaletto's  Vienna" — 
that  is,  to  the  group  of  thirteen  Viennese  views  which 
were   painted   about   1760   by   the   Venetian   Bernardo 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

Belotto  (who,  like  his  more  famous  uncle  and  model, 
Antonio  Canale,  was  generally  called  Canaletto),  and 
which  are  now  hanging  in  one  of  the  galleries  of  the 
Kunsthistorische  Hofmuseum  at  Vienna.  The  spirit 
of  those  pictures  may  be  described,  I  am  told,  as  one 
of  stately  grace.  They  are  full  of  Latin  joy  in  life 
and  beauty.  They  speak  of  an  existence  constantly 
softened  by  concern  for  the  amenities  of  life.  It  is 
just  what  survives  of  their  atmosphere  that  frequently 
makes  foreigners  speak  of  Vienna  with  a  tender  devo- 
tion not  even  surpassed  by  that  bestowed  on  Paris  or 
Rome. 

An  attempt  to  understand  the  atmosphere  and  spirit 
of  modern  Vienna  will  carry  us  far  toward  a  cor- 
rect appreciation  of  Schnitzler's  art.  And  it  is  not 
enough  to  say  that  Vienna  is  one  of  the  oldest  cities 
in  Europe.  It  is  not  even  enough  to  say  that  it  pre- 
serves more  of  the  past  than  Paris  or  London,  for 
instance.  What  we  must  always  bear  in  mind  is  its 
position  as  the  meeting  place  not  only  of  South  and 
North  but  also  of  past  and  present.  In  some  ways  it 
is  a  melting-pot  on  a  larger  scale  than  New  York  even. 
Racially  and  lingually,  it  belongs  to  the  North.  His- 
torically and  psychologically,  it  belongs  to  the  South. 
Economically  and  politically,  it  lives  very  much  in  the 
present.  Socially  and  esthetically,  it  has  always  been 
strongly  swayed  by  tradition.  The  anti-Semitic  move- 
ment, which  formed  such  a  characteristic  feature  of 
Viennese  life  during  the  last  few  decades,  must  be 
regarded  as  the  last  stand  of  vanishing  social  tradi- 
tions against  a  growing  pressure  of  economical  re- 
quirements. 

Like  all  cities  sharply  divided  within  itself  and  liv- 


INTRODUCTION  ix 


ing  above  a  volcano  of  half-suppressed  passions, 
Vienna  tends  to  seek  in  abandoned  gayety,  in  a 
frank  surrender  to  the  senses,  that  forgetfulness 
without  which  suicide  would  seem  the  only  remaining 
alternative.  Emotions  kept  constantly  at  the  boiling- 
point  must  have  an  outlet,  lest  they  burst  their  con- 
tainer. Add  to  this  sub-conscious  or  unconscious 
craving  for  a  neutral  outlet,  the  traditional  pressure 
of  the  Latin  inheritance,  and  we  have  the  greater  part 
of  the  causes  that  explain  Schnitzler's  preoccupation 
with  the  themes  of  love  and  death.  For  Schnitzler  is 
first  of  all  Viennese. 


Arthur  Schnitzler  was  born  at  Vienna  on  May  15, 
1862.  His  father  was  Professor  Johann  Schnitzler, 
a  renowned  Jewish  throat  specialist.  I  am  told  that 
Professor  Bernhardi  in  the  play  of  the  same  name  must 
be  regarded  as  a  pretty  faithful  portrait  of  the  elder 
Schnitzler,  who,  besides  his  large  and  important  prac- 
tice, had  many  other  interests,  including  an  extensive 
medical  authorship  and  the  editing  of  the  Wiener 
klinische  Rundschau.  It  is  also  to  be  noticed  that  Pro- 
fessor Bernhardi  has  among  his  assistants  a  son,  who 
divides  his  time  between  medicine  and  the  composition 
of  waltz  music. 

The  younger  Schnitzler  studied  medicine  at  the 
Vienna  University,  as  did  also  his  brother,  and  ob- 
tained his  M.  D.  in  1885.  During  the  next  two  years 
he  was  attached  to  the  resident  staff  of  one  of  the  big 
hospitals.      It  was   also  the  period   that  saw   the   be- 


INTRODUCTION 


ginning  of  his  authorship.  While  contributing  medi- 
cal reviews  to  his  father's  journal,  he  was  also  pub- 
lishing poems  and  prose  sketches  in  various  literary 
periodicals.  Most  of  his  contributions  from  this  time 
appeared  in  a  publication  named  "An  der  schonen 
hlauen  Donau"  (By  the  Beautiful  Blue  Danube),  now 
long  defunct. 

He  was  also  continuing  his  studies,  which  almost 
from  the  start  seem  to  have  turned  toward  the  psychic 
side  of  the  medical  science.  The  new  methods  of  hyp- 
notism and  suggestion  interested  him  greatly,  and  in 
1889  he  published  a  monograph  on  "Functional 
Aphonia  and  its  Treatment  by  Hypnotism  and  Sug- 
gestion." In  1888  he  made  a  study  trip  to  England, 
during  which  he  wrote  a  series  of  "London  Letters"  on 
medical  subjects  for  his  father's  journal.  On  his  re- 
turn he  settled  down  as  a  practicing  physician,  but 
continued  to  act  as  his  father's  assistant.  And  as 
late  as  1891-95  we  find  him  named  as  his  father's  col- 
laborator on  a  large  medical  work  entitled  "Chnical 
Atlas  of  Laryngology  and  Rhinology." 

There  are  many  signs  to  indicate  uncertainty  as  to 
his  true  calling  during  those  early  years.  The  ensuing 
inner  conflict  was  probably  sharpened  by  some  pres- 
sure exercised  by  his  father,  who  seems  to  have  been 
anxious  that  he  should  turn  his  energies  undividedly 
to  medicine.  To  a  practical  and  outwardly  successful 
man  like  the  elder  Schnitzler,  his  own  profession  must 
have  appeared  by  far  the  more  important  and  promis- 
ing. While  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  his  atti- 
tude in  this  matter  was  aggressive,  it  must  have  been 
keenly  felt  and,  to  some  extent  at  least,  resented  by 
the  son.    One  of  the  dominant  notes  of  the  latter's  work 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

is  the  mutual  lack  of  understanding  between  succes- 
sive generations,  and  this  lack  tends  with  significant 
frequency  to  assume  the  form  of  a  father's  opposition 
to  a  son's  choice  of  profession. 

This  conflict  cannot  have  lasted  very  long,  however, 
for  the  younger  Schnitzler  proved  quickly  successful 
in  his  purely  literary  efforts.  The  "Anatol"  sketches 
attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention  even  while  appear- 
ing separately  in  periodicals,  and  with  their  publica- 
tion in  book  form, which  occurred  almost  simultaneously 
with  the  first  performance  of  "A  Piece  of  Fiction"  at  a 
Viennese  theater,  their  author  was  hailed  as  one  of 
the  most  promising  among  the  younger  men.  From 
that  time  he  has  been  adding  steadily  to  his  output  and 
his  reputation.  When  his  collected  works  were  issued 
in  1912,  these  included  four  volumes  of  plays  and  three 
volumes  of  novels  and  stories.  Since  then  he  has 
finished  another  play  and  two  volumes  of  prose 
sketches. 

It  is  rare  to  find  an  author  turning  with  such  regu- 
larity from  the  epic  to  the  dramatic  form  and  back 
again.  And  it  is  still  more  rare  to  find  him  so  thor- 
oughly at  home  and  successful  in  both  fields.  In 
Schnitzler's  case  these  two  parallel  veins  have  mutually 
supported  and  developed  each  other.  Time  and  again 
he  has  treated  the  same  theme  first  in  one  form  and 
then  in  another.  And  not  infrequently  he  has  intro- 
duced characters  from  his  plays  into  his  stories,  and 
vice  versa.  A  careful  study  of  his  other  works  would 
undoubtedly  assist  toward  a  better  understanding  of 
his  plays,  but  I  do  not  regard  such  a  study  essential 
for  the  purpose.  It  is  my  belief  that  Schnitzler  has 
given   himself   most   fully    and    most    typically    in   his 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

dramatic  authorship,  and  it  is  to  this  side  of  his  crea- 
tive production  I  must  confine  myself  here. 


/^  "Anatol"  is  nothing  but  seven  sketches  in  dramatic 
^form,  each  sketch  picturing  a  new  love  affair  of  the 
kind  supposed  to  be  especially  characteristic  of  Vien- 
nese life.  The  man  remains  the  same  in  all  these 
light  adventures.  The  woman  is  always  a  different 
one.  The  story  is  of  the  kind  always  accompanying 
such  circumstances — one  of  waxing  or  waning  attrac- 
tion, of  suspicion  and  jealousy,  of  incrimination  and 
recrimination,  of  intrigue  and  counter-intrigue.  The 
/  atmosphere  is  realistic,  but  the  actuality  implied  is 
i^sharply  limited  and  largely  superficial.  There  is  little 
attempt  at  getting  down  to  the  roots  of  things.  There 
is  absolutely  no  tendency  or  thesis.  The  story  is  told 
for  the  sake  of  the  story,  and  its  chief  redeeming  qual- 
ity lies  in  the  grace  and  charm  and  verve  with  which  it 
is  told.  These  were  qualities  that  immediately  won 
the  public's  favor  when  "Anatol"  first  appeared.  And 
to  some  extent  it  must  be  counted  unfortunate  that 
the  impression  made  by  those  qualities  was  so  deep  and 
so  lasting.  There  has  been  a  strong  tendency  observ- 
able, both  within  and  outside  the  author's  native  coun- 
try, to  regard  him  particularly  as  the  creator  of 
Anatol,  and  to  question,  if  not  to  resent,  his  inevitable 
and  unmistakable  growth  beyond  that  pleasing,  but 
not  very  significant  starting  point. 

And  yet  his  next  dramatic  production,  which  was 
also  his  first  serious  effort  as  a  playwright,  ought  to 
have  proved  sufficient  warning  that  he  was  moved  by 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

something  more  than  a  desire  to  amuse.  "A  Piece  of 
Fiction"  {Das  Mdrchen)  must  be  counted  a  failure 
and,  in  some  ways,  a  step  backward.  But  its  very 
failure  is  a  promise  of  greater  things  to  come.  It 
lacks  the  grace  and  facility  of  "Anatol."  Worse 
still,  it  lacks  the  good-humor  and  subtle  irony  of  those 
first  sketches.  Instead  it  has  purpose  and  a  serious 
outlook  on  life.  The  "piece  of  fiction"  refers  to  the 
"fallen"  woman — to  the  alleged  impossibility  for  any 
decent  man  to  give  his  whole  trust  to  a  woman  who 
has  once  str9,yed  from  the  straight  path.  Fedor  Den- 
ner  denounces  this  attitude  in  the  presence  of  a  young 
girl  who  loves  him  and  is  loved  by  him,  but  who  be- 
longs to  the  category  of  women  under  discussion. 
When  he  learns  her  history,  he  struggles  vainly  to 
resist  the  feelings  of  distrust  and  jealousy  which  he 
had  declared  absurd  a  little  while  earlier.  And  the 
two  are  forced  at  last  to  walk  their  different  ways. 
Unfortunately  the  dialogue  is  heavy  and  stilted.  The 
play  is  a  tract  rather  than  a  piece  of  art,  and  the 
tirades  of  Fedor  are  equally  unconvincing  when  he 
speaks  for  or  against  that  "fiction"  which  is  killing 
both  his  own  and  the  girl's  hope  of  happiness  in  mutual 
love.  Yet  the  play  marks  a  step  forward  in  outlook 
and  spirit. 

Schnitzler's  interest  in  hypnotism,  which  had  as- 
serted itself  in  the  first  scene  of  "Anatol,"  appears 
again  in  the  little  verse-play,  "Paracelsus,"  which  fol- 
lowed. But  this  time  he  used  it  to  more  purpose. 
By  the  help  of  it,  a  woman's  innermost  soul  is  laid 
bare,  and  some  very  interesting  light  is  shed  on  the 
workings  of  the  human  mind  in  general. 

"Amours"  (Liebelei)  may  be  regarded  as  a  cross,  or 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

a  compromise,  between  "Anatol"  and  "A  Piece  of  Fic- 
tion." The  crudeness  of  speech  marking  the  latter 
play  has  given  room  to  a  very  incisive  dialogue,  that 
carries  the  action  forward  with  unfailing  precision. 
Some  of  the  temporarily  dropped  charm  has  been  re- 
covered, and  the  gain  in  sincerity  has  been  preserved. 
"Amours"  seems  to  be  the  first  one  of  a  series  of 
plays  dealing  with  the  reverse  of  the  gay  picture  pre- 
sented in  "Anatol."  A  young  man  is  having  a  love 
affair  with  two  women  at  the  same  time,  one  of  them 
married,  the  other  one  a  young  girl  with  scant  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  Yet  she  knows  enough  to  know 
what  she  is  doing,  and  she  has  sufficient  strength  of 
mind  to  rise  above  a  sense  of  guilt,  though  she  is  more 
prone  to  be  the  victim  of  fear.  Then  the  married 
woman's  husband  challenges  the  young  man,  who  is 
killed.  And  the  girl  takes  her  own  life,  not  because 
her  lover  is  dead,  not  because  of  anything  she  has 
done,  but  because  his  death  for  the  sake  of  another 
woman  renders  her  own  faith  in  him  meaningless. 

"Outside  the  Game  Laws"  {Freiwild)  is  another 
step  ahead — the  first  play,  I  think,  where  the  real 
Arthur  Schnitzler,  the  author  of  "The  Lonely  Way" 
and  "Countess  Mizzie,"  reveals  himself.  It  has  a  thesis, 
but  this  is  implied  rather  than  obtruded.  In  style  and 
character-drawing  it  is  realistic  in  the  best  sense.  It 
shows  already  the  typical  Schnitzlerian  tendency  of 
dealing  with  serious  questions — with  questions  of  life 
and  death — in  a  casual  fashion,  as  if  they  were  but 
problems  of  which  road  to  follow  or  which  shop  to 
enter.  It  has  one  fault  that  must  appear  as  such 
everywhere,  namely,  a  division  of  purpose.  When  the 
play  starts,  one  imagines  that  those  "outside  the  game 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

laws"  are  the  women  of  the  stage,  who  are  presented 
as  the  legitimate  prey  of  any  man  caring  to  hunt  them. 
As  the  play  goes  on,  that  starting  point  is  almost  lost 
sight  of,  and  it  becomes  more  and  more  plain  that 
those  "outside  the  game  laws"  are  sensible,  decent  men 
who  refuse  to  submit  to  the  silly  dictates  of  the  duel- 
ing code.  But  what  I  have  thus  named  a  fault  is 
mostly  theoretical,  and  does  not  mar  the  effective 
appeal  of  the  play.  What  must  appear  as  a  more 
serious  shortcoming  from  an  American  viewpoint  is 
the  local  nature  of  the  evil  attacked,  which  lessens  the 
universal  validity  of  the  work. 

"Change  Partners!"  (Reigen)  was  produced  about 
the  same  time  as  "Outside  the  Game  Laws,"  but  was 
not  printed  until  1900,  and  then  only  privately.  Yet 
those  ten  dialogues  provoked  from  the  first  a  storm 
which  seriously  threatened  Schnitzler's  growing  repu- 
tation and  popularity.  When  Vienna  finds  a  work 
immoral,  one  may  look  for  something  dreadful.  And 
the  work  in  question  attempts  a  degree  of  naturalism 
rarely  equaled  in  France  even.  Yet  those  dialogues 
are  anything  but  immoral  in  spirit.  They  introduce 
ten  men  and  as  many  women.  The  man  of  one  scene 
reappears  with  a  new  woman  in  the  next,  and  then 
that  woman  figures  as  the  partner  of  a  new  man  in 
the  third  scene.  The  story  is  always  the  same  (except 
in  the  final  dialogue)  :  desire,  satisfaction,  indifference. 
The  idea  underlying  this  "ring  dance,"  as  the  title 
means  literally,  is  the  same  one  that  recurs  under  a 
much  more  attractive  aspect  in  "Countess  Mizzie." 
It  is  the  linking  together  of  the  entire  social  organism 
by  man's  natural  cravings.     And  as  a  document  bear- 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

ing  on  the  psychology  of  sex  "Change  Partners!"  has 
not  many  equals. 

In  "The  Legacy"  {Das  Vermachtnis)  we  meet  with  I 
a  forcible  presentation  and  searching  discussion  of 
the  world's  attitude  toward  those  ties  that  have  been 
established  without  social  sanction.  A  young  man  is 
brought  home  dying,  having  been  thrown  from  his 
horse.  He  compels  his  parents  to  send  for  his  mis- 
tress and  their  little  boy,  and  he  hands  both  over  to 
the  care  of  his  family.  That  is  his  "legacy."  The 
family  tries  hard  to  rise  to  this  unexpected  situation 
and  fails  miserably — largely,  it  must  be  confessed, 
thanks  to  the  caddish  attitude  of  a  self-made  physician 
who  wants  to  marry  the  dead  man's  sister.  The  sec- 
ond act  ends  with  the  death  of  the  little  boy ;  the  third, 
with  the  disappearance  and  probable  suicide  of  his 
mother.  Tiic  dead  man's  sister  cries  out:  "Every- 
thing that  was  his  is  sacred  to  us,  but  the  one  living 
being  who  meant  more  to  him  than  all  of  us  is  driven 
out  of  our  home."  The  one  ray  of  light  offered  is 
that  the  sister  sees  through  the  man  who  has  been 
courting  her  and  sends  him  packing.  It  is  noticeable 
in  this  play,  as  in  others  written  by  Schnitzler,  that 
the  attitude  of  the  women  is  more  sensible  and  tolerant 
than  that  of  the  men. 

The  physician  is  one  of  the  few  members  of  that 
profession  whom  the  author  has  painted  in  an  un- 
favorable light.  There  is  hardly  one  full-length  play 
of  his  in  which  at  least  one  representative  of  the  medical 
profession  does  not  appear.  And  almost  invariably 
they  seem  destined  to  act  as  the  particular  mouthpieces 
of  the  author.  In  a  play  like  "The  Lonely  Way,"  for  1 
instance,  the  life  shown  is  the  life  lived  by  men  and(j 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

women  observed  by  Schnitzler.  The  opinions  expressed 
are  the  opinions  of  that  sort  of  men  and  women  under 
the  given  circumstances.  The  author  neither  approves 
nor  disapproves  when  he  makes  each  character  speak 
in  accordance  with  his  own  nature.  But  like  most 
creative  artists,  he  has  felt  the  need  of  stating  his 
own  view  of  the  surrounding  throng.  This  he  seems 
usually  to  do  through  the  mouth  of  men  like  Dr.  Reu- 
marm  in  the  play  just  mentioned,  or  Dr.  Mauer  in 
"The  Vast  Country."  And  the  attitude  of  those  men 
shows  a  strange  mingling  of  disapproval  and  forbear- 
ance, which  undoubtedly  comes  very  near  being 
Schnitzler's  own. 

The  little  one-act  play  "The  Life  Partner"  (Die 
Gefahrtin)  is  significant  mainly  as  a  study  for  bigger 
canvases  developing  the  same  theme :  the  veil  that  hides 
the  true  life  of  man  and  woman  alike  from  the  partner. 
And  the  play  should  really  be  named  "The  Life  Partner 
That  Was  Not."  Another  one-act  play,  "The  Green 
Cockatoo,"  is  laid  at  Paris.  Its  action  takes  place 
on  the  evening  of  July  14,  1789 — the  fall  of  the  Bastille 
and  the  birth  of  the  Revolution.  It  presents  a  won- 
derful picture  of  social  life  at  the  time — of  the  average 
human  being's  unconsciousness  of  the  great  events 
taking  place  right  under  his  nose. 

"The  Veil  of  Beatrice,"  a  verse  play  in  five  acts, 
takes  us  to  Bologna  in  the  year  1500,  when  Cesare 
Borgia  was  preparing  to  invest  the  city  in  order  to 
oust  its  tyrant,  Giovanni  Bentivoglio  (named  Lio- 
nardo  in  the  play),  and  add  it  to  the  Papal  possessions. 
All  the  acts  take  place  in  one  night.  The  fundamental 
theme  is  one  dear  to  Schnitzler — the  flaming  up  of 
passion  under  the  shadow  of  impending  death.      The 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 


whole  city,  with  the  duke  leading,  surrenders  to  this 
outburst,  the  spirit  of  which  finds  its  symbol  in  a 
ravishingly  beautiful  girl,  Beatrice  Nardi,  who  seems 
fated  to  spread  desire  and  death  wherever  she  appears. 
With  her  own  death  at  dawn,  the  city  seems  to  wake 
as  from  a  nightmare  to  face  the  enemy  already  at 
the  gates.  The  play  holds  much  that  is  beautiful  and 
much  that  is  disappointing.  To  me  its  chief  impor- 
tance lies  in  the  fact  that  it  marks  a  breaking-point 
between  the  period  when  Schnitzler  was  trying  to  write 
"with  a  purpose,"  and  that  later  and  greater  period 
when  he  has  learned  how  to  treat  life  sincerely  and  se- 
riously without  other  purpose  than  to  present  it  as  it 
is.  That  was  his  starting  point  in  "Anatol,"  but 
then  he  was  not  yet  ready  for  the  realism  that  must 
be  counted  the  highest  of  all:  the  realism  that  has  no 
tendency  and  preaches  no  lesson,  but  from  which  we 
draw  our  own  lessons  as  we  draw  them  from  life  itself 
in  moments  of  unusual  lucidity. 

"Hours  of  Life"  {Lebendige  Stunden),  which  has 
given  its  name  to  a  volume  of  four  one-act  plays,  may 
be  described  as  a  mental  duel  between  two  sharply  op- 
posed temperaments — the  practical  and  the  imagina- 
tive. An  elderly  woman,  long  an  invalid,  has  just  died, 
and  a  letter  to  the  man  who  has  loved  and  supported 
her  during  her  final  years  reveals  the  fact  that  she  has 
taken  her  own  life  because  she  feared  that  the  thought 
of  her  was  preventing  her  son,  a  poet,  from  work- 
ing. The  duel  is  between  that  son  and  the  man  who 
has  befriended  his  mother.  The  play  constitutes  a 
scathing  arraignment  of  the  artistic  temperament. 
Bernard  Shaw  himself  has  never  penned  a  more  bitter 
one.     "Even  if  you  were  the  world's  greatest  geniui," 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

the  old  man  cries  to  the  young  one,  "all  your  scribbling 
would  be  worthless  in  comparison  with  a  single  one  of 
those  hours  of  real  life  that  saw  your  mother  seated 
in  that  chair,  talking  to  us,  or  merely  listening,  per- 
haps." 

The  most  important  of  those  four  one-act  plays, 
however,  is  "End  of  the  Carnival"  (Die  letzten  Mas- 
ken).  An  old  journalist,  a  might-have-been,  dying  in 
a  hospital,  sends  for  a  life-long  friend,  a  successful 
poet,  whom  he  hates  because  of  his  success.  All  he 
thinks  of  is  revenge,  of  getting  even,  and  he  means  to 
achieve  this  end  by  disclosing  to  the  poet  the  faithless- 
ness of  his  wife.  Once  she  had  been  the  mistress  of 
the  dying  man,  and  that  seems  to  him  his  one  triumph 
in  life.  But  when  the  poet  arrives  and  begins  to  talk 
of  the  commonplaces  of  daily  life,  of  petty  gossip, 
petty  intrigues,  and  petty  jealousies,  then  the  dying 
man  suddenly  sees  the  futility  of  the  whole  thing.  To 
him,  who  has  one  foot  across  the  final  threshold,  it 
means  nothing,  and  he  lets  his  friend  depart  without 
having  told  him  anything.  There  is  a  curious  recur- 
rence of  the  same  basic  idea  in  "Professor  Bernhardi," 
where  the  central  figure  acquires  a  similar  sense  of 
our  ordinary  life's  futility  by  spending  two  months 
in  jail. 

To  what  extent  Schnitzler  has  studied  and  been  im- 
pressed by  Nietzsche  I  don't  know,  but  the  thought 
underlying  "The  Lady  With  the  Dagger"  is  distinctly 
Nictzschean.  It  implies  not  only  a  sense  of  our 
having  lived  before,  of  having  previously  stood  in  the 
same  relationship  to  the  people  now  surrounding  us, 
but  of  being  compelled  to  repeat  our  past  experience, 
even    if    a    sudden    flash    of    illumination    out    of    the 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

buried  past  should  reveal  to  us  its  predestined  fatal 
termination.  This  idea  meets  us  again  in  the  first  act 
of  "The  Lonel}'  Way."  The  fourth  of  those  one-act 
plays,  "Literature,"  is  what  Schnitzler  has  named  it — 
a  farce — but  delightfully  clever  and  satirical. 

Those  four  plays,  and  the  group  of  three  others 
published  under  the  common  title  of  "Puppets"  {Ma- 
rionetten),  are,  next  to  "Anatol,"  the  best  known 
works  of  Schnitzler's  outside  of  Austria  and  Germany. 
They  deserve  their  wide  reputation,  too,  for  there  is 
nothing  quite  like  them  in  the  modem  drama.  Yet  I 
think  they  have  been  over-estimated  in  comparison 
with  the  rest  of  Schnitzler's  production.  "The  Puppet 
Player,"  "The  Gallant  Cassian"  and  "The  Greatest 
Show  of  All"  {Zum  grossen  Wurstel)  have  charm  and 
brightness  and  wit.  But  in  regard  to  actual  signifi- 
cance they  cannot  compare  with  plays  like  "The  Lonely 
Way,"   for  instance. 

The  three  plays  comprised  in  the  volume  named 
"Puppets"  constitute  three  more  exemplifications  of 
the  artistic  temperament,  which  again  fares  badly  at 
the  hands  of  their  author.  And  yet  he  has  more  than 
one  telling  word  to  say  in  defense  of  that  very  tem- 
perament. That  these  plays,  like  "Hours  of  Life"  and 
"Literature,"  are  expressive  of  the  inner  conflict  rag- 
ing for  years  within  the  playwright's  own  soul,  I  take 
for  granted.  And  they  seem  to  reflect  moments  when 
Schnitzler  felt  that,  in  choosing  poetry  rather  than 
medicine  for  his  life  work,  he  had  sacrificed  the  better 
choice.  And  yet  they  do  not  show  any  regrets,  but 
rather  a  slightly  ironical  self-pity.  A  note  of  irony 
runs  through  everything  that  Schnitzler  has  written, 
constituting  one  of  the  main  attractions  of  his  art, 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

and  it  is  the  more  acceptable  because  the  point  of  it 
so  often  turns  against  the  writer  himself. 

"The  Puppet  Player"  is  a  poet  who  has  ceased 
writing  in  order  to  use  human  beings  for  his  material. 
He  thinks  that  he  is  playing  with  their  destinies  as  if 
they  were  so  many  puppets.  And  the  little  drama 
shows  how  his  accidental  interference  has  created  fates 
stronger  and  happier  than  his  own — fates  lying  wholly 
outside  his  power.  The  play  suffers  from  a  tendency 
to  exaggerated  subtlety  which  is  one  of  Schnitzler's 
principal  dangers,  though  it  rarely  asserts  itself  to 
such  an  extent  that  the  enjoyment  of  his  work  is 
spoiled  by  it. 

His  self-irony  reaches  its  climax  in  the  one-act  play 
which  I  have  been  forced  to  name  "The  Greatest  Show 
of  All"  because  the  original  title  {Zum  grossen 
Wurstel)  becomes  meaningless  in  English.  There  he 
proceeds  with  reckless  abandon  to  ridicule  his  own 
work  as  well  as  the  inflated  importance  of  all  imagina- 
tive creation.  But  to  even  up  the  score,  he  includes 
the  public,  as  representative  of  ordinary  humanity, 
among  the  objects  of  his  sarcasms.  And  in  the  end 
all  of  us — poets,  players,  and  spectators — are  exposed 
as  mere  puppets.  The  same  thought  recurs  to  some 
extent  in  "The  Gallant  Cassian,"  which  is  otherwise 
a  piece  of  sheer  fun — the  slightest  of  Schnitzler's  dra- 
matic productions,  perhaps,  but  not  without  the  ac- 
customed  Schnitzlerian   sting. 

When,  after  reading  all  the  preceding  plays,  one 
reaches  "The  Lonely  Way"  (Drr  einsame  Weg),  it  is 
hard  to  escape  an  impression  of  everything  else  having 
been  nothing  but  a  preparation.  It  is  beyond  all 
doubt  Schnitzler's   greatest   and   most  powerful  crea- 


xxil  INTRODUCTION 

tion  so  far,  representing  a  tremendous  leap  forward 
both  in  form  and  spirit.  It  has  less  passion  than 
"The  Call  of  Life,"  less  subtlety  than  "Intermezzo," 
less  tolerance  than  "Countess  Mizzie."  Instead  it  com- 
bines in  perfect  balance  all  the  best  qualities  of  those 
three  plays — each  dominant  feature  reduced  a  little  to 
give  the  others  scope  as  well.  It  is  a  wonderful  speci- 
men of  what  might  be  called  the  new  realism — of  that 
realism  which  is  paying  more  attention  to  spiritual 
than  to  material  actualities.  Yet  it  is  by  no  means 
lacking  in  the  more  superficial  verisimilitude  either. 
Its  character-drawing  and  its  whole  atmosphere  are 
startlingly  faithful  to  life,  even  though  the  life  por- 
trayed may  represent  a  clearly  defined  and  limited 
phase  of  universal  human  existence. 

The  keynote  of  the  play  lies  in  Sola's  words  to 
Julian  in  the  closing  scene  of  the  fourth  act:  "The 
process  of  aging  must  needs  be  a  lonely  one  to  our 
kind."  That's  the  main  theme — not  a  thesis  to  be 
proved.  This  loneliness  to  which  Sala  refers,  is  com- 
mon to  all  people,  but  it  is  more  particularly  the  share 
of  those  who,  like  himself  and  Julian,  have  treasured 
their  "freedom"  above  everything  else  and  who,  for 
that  reason,  have  eschewed  the  human  ties  which  to  a 
man  like  Wegrath  represent  life's  greatest  good  and 
deepest  meaning.  Again  we  find  the  principal  charac- 
ters of  the  play  typifying  the  artistic  temperament, 
with  its  unhuman  disregards  of  the  relationships  that 
have  primary  importance  to  other  men.  Its  gross 
egoism,  as  exemplified  by  Julian,  is  the  object  of  pas- 
sionate derision.  And  yet  it  is  a  man  of  that  kind, 
Sala,  who  recognizes  and  points  out  the  truer  path, 
when  he  sayi :     "To  love  is  to  live  for  somebody  else." 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

The  play  has  no  thesis,  as  I  have  already  said.  It 
is  not  poised  on  the  point  of  a  single  idea.  Numerous 
subordinate  themes  are  woven  into  the  main  one,  giv- 
ing the  texture  of  the  whole  a  richness  resembling  that 
of  life  itself.  Woman's  craving  for  experience  and 
self-determination  is  one  such  theme,  which  we  shall 
find  again  in  "Intermezzo,"  where  it  practically  be- 
comes the  dominant  one. 

Another  one  is  that  fascinated  stare  at  death  which 
is  so  characteristice  of  Latin  and  Slav  writers — of 
men  like  Zola,  Maupassant,  and  Tolstoy — while  it  is 
significantly  absent  in  the  great  Scandinavian  and 
Anglo-Saxon  poets.  "Is  there  ever  a  blissful  moment 
in  any  decent  man's  life,  when  he  can  think  of  any- 
thing but  death  in  his  innermost  soul?"  says  Sala.  The 
same  thought  is  expressed  in  varying  forms  by  one 
after  another  of  Schnitzler's  characters.  "All  sorrow 
is  a  lie  as  long  as  the  open  grave  is  not  your  own," 
cries  the  dying  Catharine  in  "The  Call  of  Life."  It  is 
in  this  connection  particularly  that  we  of  the  North 
must  bear  in  mind  Schnitzler's  Viennese  background 
and  the  Latin  traditions  forming  such  a  conspicuous 
part  of  it.  The  Latin  peoples  have  shown  that  they 
can  die  as  bravely  as  the  men  of  any  other  race  or 
clime,  but  their  attitude  toward  death  in  general  is 
widely  different  from  the  attitude  illustrated  by  Ibsen 
or  Strindberg,  for  instance.  A  certain  gloom,  having 
kinship  with  death,  seems  ingrained  in  the  Northern 
temperament,  put  there  probably  by  the  pressure  of  the 
Northern  winter.  The  man  of  the  sunlit  South,  on 
the  other  hand,  seems  always  to  retain  the  child's  sim- 
ple horror  at  the  thought  that  darkness  must  follow 
light.    We  had  better  not  regard  it  as  cowardice  under 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

any  circumstances,  and  cowardice  it  can  certainly  not 
be  called  in  the  characters  of  Schnitzler.  But  the  res- 
ignation in  which  he  finds  his  only  antidote,  and  which 
seems  to  represent  his  nearest  approach  to  a  formu- 
lated philosophy,  cannot  be  expected  to  satisfy  us. 
One  of  his  own  countrymen,  Hermann  Bahr,  has  pro- 
tested sharply  against  its  insufficiency  as  a  soul-sus- 
taining faith,  and  in  that  protest  I  feel  inclined  to 
concur. 

With  "The  Lonely  Way"  begins  a  series  of  plays 
representing  not  only  Schnitzler's  highest  achievements 
so  far,  but  a  new  note  in  the  modern  drama.  To  a 
greater  extent  than  any  other  modern  plays — not  even 
excepting  those  of  Ibsen — they  must  be  defined  as 
psychological.  The  dramas  of  Strindberg  come  near- 
est in  this  respect,  but  they,  too,  lag  behind  in  soul- 
revealing  quality.  Plots  are  almost  lacking  in  the 
Schnitzler  productions  during  his  later  period.  Things 
happen,  to  be  sure,  and  these  happenings  are  violent 
enough  at  times,  but  they  do  not  constitute  a  sharply 
selected  sequence  of  events  leading  up  to  a  desired  and 
foreshadowed  end.  In  the  further  development  of  this 
period,  even  clearly  defined  themes  are  lost  sight  of, 
and  the  course  of  the  play  takes  on  an  almost  acci- 
dental aspect.  This  is  puzzling,  of  course,  and  it 
must  be  especially  provoking  to  those  who  expect  each 
piece  of  art  to  have  its  narrow  little  lesson  neatly 
tacked  on  in  a  spot  where  it  cannot  be  missed.  It  im- 
plies a  manner  that  exacts  more  alertness  and  greater 
insight  on  the  part  of  the  reader.  But  for  that  very 
reason  these  later  plays  of  Schnitzler  should  prove 
stimulating  to  those  who  do  not  suffer  from  mental 
laziness  or  exhaustion. 


INTRODUCTION  xxy 

"Intermezzo"  {Zwischenspiel)  might  be  interpreted 
as  an  attack  on  those  new  marital  conventions  which 
abolish  the  old-fashioned  demand  for  mutual  faithful- 
ness and  substitute  mutual  frankness.  It  would  be 
more  correct,  however,  to  characterize  it  as  a  discus- 
sion of  what  constitutes  true  honesty  in  the  ever  deli- 
cate relationship  between  husband  and  wife.  It  shows, 
too,  the  growth  of  a  woman's  soul,  once  she  has  been 
forced  to  stand  on  her  own  feet.  Viewed  from  this 
point,  the  play  might  very  well  be  classified  as  femi- 
nistic. It  would  be  easy,  for  one  thing,  to  read  into  it  a 
plea  for  a  single  moral  standard.  But  its  ultimate 
bearing  goes  far  beyond  such  a  narrow  construction. 
Here  as  elsewhere,  Schnitzler  shows  himself  more  sym- 
pathetic toward  the  female  than  toward  the  male  out- 
look on  life,  and  the  creator  of  Cecilia  Adams-Orten- 
burg  may  well  be  proclaimed  one  of  the  foremost  liv- 
ing painters  of  the  woman  soul. 

The  man  who,  in  "Anatol,"  saw  nothing  but  a  rather 
weak-minded  restlessness  in  woman's  inconstancy,  rec- 
ognizes in  "Intermezzo"  woman's  right  to  as  complete 
a  knowledge  of  life  and  its  possibilities  as  any  man  may 
acquire.  The  same  note  is  struck  by  Johanna  in  "The 
Lonely  Way."  "I  want  a  time  to  come  when  I  must 
shudder  at  myself — shudder  as  deeply  as  you  can  only 
when  nothing  has  been  left  untried,"  she  says  to  Sala 
in  the  fourth  act.  This  note  sounds  much  more  clearly 
— one  might  say  defiantly — through  the  last  two  acts 
of  "Intermezzo."  And  when  Amadeus,  shrinking  from 
its  implications,  cries  to  Cecilia  that  thereafter  she 
will  be  guarded  by  his  tenderness,  she  retorts  impa- 
tiently :    "But  I  don't  want  to  be  guarded !    I  shall  no 


xivi  INTRODUCTION 

longer  permit  you  to  guard  me !"  In  strict  keeping 
with  it  is  also  that  Schnitzler  here  realizes  and  accepts 
woman's  capacity  for  and  right  to  creative  expression. 
It  is  from  Cecilia  s  lips  that  the  suggestion  comes  to 
seek  a  remedy  for  life's  hurts  in  a  passionate  abandon- 
ment to  work.  In  fact,  the  established  attitudes  of 
man  and  woman  seem  almost  reversed  in  the  cases  of 
Amadeus  and  Cecilia. 

Significant  as  this  play  is  from  any  point  viewed,  I 
am  inclined  to  treasure  it  most  on  account  of  the 
subtlety  and  delicacy  of  its  dialogue.  I  don't  think 
any  dramatist  of  modern  times  has  surpassed  Schnitz- 
ler in  his  ability  to  find  expression  for  the  most  re- 
fined nuances  of  thought  and  feeling.  To  me,  at  least, 
it  is  a  constant  joy  to  watch  the  iridescence  of  his 
sentences,  which  gives  to  each  of  them  not  merely  one, 
but  innumerable  meanings.  And  through  so  much  of 
this  particular  play  runs  a  spirit  that  can  only  be  called 
playful — a  spirit  which  finds  its  most  typical  expres- 
sion in  the  delightful  figure  of  Albert  Rhon,  the  poet 
who  takes  the  place  of  the  otherwise  inevitable  physi- 
cian. I  like  to  think  of  that  figure  as  more  or  less 
embodying  the  author's  conception  of  himself.  All 
the  wit  and  sparkle  with  which  we  commonly  credit 
the  Gallic  mind  seems  to  me  abundantly  present  in 
the  scenes  between  Albert  and  Amadeus. 

The  poise  and  quiet  characterizing  "The  Lonely 
Way"  and  "Intermezzo"  appear  lost  to  some  extent 
in  "The  Call  of  Life"  {Der  Ruf  des  Leben),  which,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  one  of  the  intensest  plays  written  by 
Schnitzler.  The  white  heat  of  its  passion  sears  the 
mind  at  times,  so  that  the  reader  feels  like  raising  a 
shield  between  himself  and  the  words.     "It  was  as  if 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 


I  heard  life  itself  calling  to  me  outside  my  door,"  Marie 
says  in  this  play  when  trying  to  explain  to  Dr.  Schind- 
ler  why  she  had  killed  her  father  and  gone  to  seek  her 
lover.  The  play  might  as  well  have  been  named  "The 
Will  to  Live,"  provided  we  remember  that  mere  exist- 
ence can  hardly  be  called  life.  Its  basic  thought  has 
much  in  common  with  that  of  Frank  Wedekind's 
"Earth  Spirit,"  but  Schnitzler  spiritualizes  what 
the  German  playwright  has  vulgarized.  There  is  a 
lot  of  modern  heresy  in  that  thought — a  lot  of  revived 
and  refined  paganism  that  stands  in  sharp  opposition 
to  the  spirit  of  Christianity  as  it  has  been  interpreted 
hitherto.  It  might  be  summarized  as  a  twentieth  cen 
tury  version  of  Achilles*  declaration  that  he  would 
rather  be  a  live  dog  than  the  ruler  of  all  the  shades 
in  Hades.  "What  a  creature  can  I  be,"  cries  Marie, 
"to  emerge  out  of  such  an  experience  as  out  of  a  bad 
dream — awake — and  living — and  wanting  to  live?" 
And  the  kind,  wise,  Schnitzlerian  doctor's  answer  is: 
"You  are  alive — and  the  rest  has  been.  .  .  ."  Life 
itself  is  its  own  warrant  and  explanation.  Unimpaired 
life — life  with  the  power  and  will  to  go  on  living — is 
the  greatest  boon  and  best  remedy  of  any  that  can 
be  offered. 

The  weak  point  of  "The  Call  to  Life"  is  Marie*s 
father,  the  old  Moser — one  of  the  most  repulsive  fig- 
ures ever  seen  on  the  stage.  It  may  have  been  made 
what  it  is  in  order  that  the  girl's  crime  might  not 
hopelessly  prejudice  the  spectator  at  the  start  and 
thus  render  all  the  rest  of  the  play  futile.  We  must 
remember,  too,  that  the  monstrous  egoism  of  Moser  is 
not  represented  as  a  typical  quality  of  that  old  age 
which  feels  itself  robbed  by  the  advance  of  triumphant 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 


youth.  What  Schnitzler  shows  is  that  egoism  grows 
more  repulsive  as  increasing  age  makes  it  less  war- 
ranted. The  middle  act  of  the  play,  with  its  remark- 
able conversation  between  the  Colonel  and  Max,  brings 
us  back  to  "Outside  the  Game  Laws."  That  earlier 
play  was  in  its  time  declared  the  best  existing  stage 
presentation  of  the  spirit  engendered  by  the  military 
hfe.  But  it  has  a  close  second  in  "The  Call  of  Life." 
To  anyone  having  watched  the  manners  of  militarism 
in  Europe,  the  words  of  the  Colonel  to  Max  will  sound 
as  an  all-sufficient  explanation:  "No  physicians  have 
to  spend  thirty  years  at  the  side  of  beds  containing 
puppets  instead  of  human  patients — no  lawyers  have 
to  practice  on  criminals  made  out  of  pasteboard — and 
even  the  ministers  are  not  infrequently  preaching  to 
people  who  actually  believe  in  heaven  and  hell." 

If  "The  Lonely  Way"  be  Schnitzler's  greatest  play 
all  around,  and  "Intermezzo"  his  subtlest,  "Countess 
Mizzie"  is  the  sweetest,  the  best  tempered,  the  one  that 
leaves  the  most  agreeable  taste  in  the  mouth.  It  gives 
us  a  concrete  embodiment  of  the  tolerance  toward  all 
life  that  is  merely  suggested  by  the  closing  sentences 
of  Dr.  Schindler  in  the  last  act  of  "The  Call  of  Life." 
It  brings  back  the  gay  spirit  of  "Anatol,"  but  with  a 
rare  maturity  supporting  it.  The  simple  socio-bio- 
logical  philosophy  of  "Change  Partners!"  is  restated 
without  the  needless  naturalism  of  those  early  dia- 
logues. The  idea  of  "Countess  Mizzie"  is  that,  if  we 
look  deep  enough,  all  social  distinctions  are  lost  in  a 
universal  human  kinship.  On  the  surface  we  appear 
like  flowers  neatly  arranged  in  a  bed,  each  kind  in  its 
separate  and  carefully  labeled  corner.  Then  Schnitz- 
ler begins  to  scrape  off  the  screening  earth,  and  under- 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

neath  we  find  the  roots  of  all  those  flowers  intertwined 
and  matted,  so  that  it  is  impossible  to  tell  which  be- 
long to  the  Count  and  which  to  Wasner,  the  coachman, 
which  to  Miss  Lolo,  the  ballet-dancer,  and  which  to 
the  Countess. 

"Young  Medardus"  is  Schnitzler's  most  ambitious 
attempt  at  historical  playwriting.  It  seems  to  indi- 
cate that  he  belongs  too  wholly  in  the  present  age  to 
succeed  in  that  direction.  The  play  takes  us  back  to 
1809,  when  Napoleon  appeared  a  second  time  outside 
the  gates  of  Vienna.  The  central  character,  Medardus 
Kldhr,  is  said  to  be  historical.  The  re-created  atmos- 
phere of  old  Vienna  is  at  once  convincing  and  amusing. 
But  the  play  is  too  sprawling,  too  scattered,  to  get 
firm  hold  on  the  reader.  There  are  seventy-four  spe- 
cifically indicated  characters,  not  to  mention  groups 
of  dumb  figures.  And  while  the  title  page  speaks  of 
five  acts  and  a  prologue,  there  are  in  reality  seventeen 
distinct  scenes.  Each  scene  may  be  dramatically  valu- 
able, but  the  constant  passage  from  place  to  place,  from 
one  set  of  characters  to  another,  has  a  confusing  ef- 
fect. 

There  is,  too,  a  more  deep-lying  reason  for  the  fail- 
ure of  the  play  as  a  whole,  I  think.  The  ironical  out- 
look so  dear  to  Schnitzler — or  rather,  so  inseparable 
from  his  temperament — has  betrayed  him.  Irony  seems 
hopelessly  out  of  place  in  a  historical  drama,  where  it 
tends  to  make  us  feel  that  the  author  does  not  believe 
in  the  actual  existence  of  his  own  characters.  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  "Young  Medardus"  takes  the  place 
within  the  production  of  Schnitzler  that  is  held  by 
"Peer  Gynt"  in  the  production   of  Ibsen — that  Me- 


XXX 


INTRODUCTION 


dardus  Klahr  is  meant  to  satirize  the  Viennese  charac- 
ter as  Peer  Gynt  satirizes  the  Norwegian. 

The  keynote  of  the  play  may  be  found  in  the  words 
of  Etzelt,  spoken  as  Medardus  is  about  to  be  shot,  after 
having  refused  to  save  his  own  life  by  a  promise  not 
to  make  any  attempts  against  Napoleon's:  "God 
wanted  to  make  a  hero  of  him,  and  the  course  of  events 
turned  him  into  a  fool."  The  obvious  interpreta- 
tion is  that  the  pettiness  of  Viennese  conditions  de- 
feated the  larger  aspirations  of  the  man,  who  would 
have  proved  true  to  his  own  possibilities  in  other  sur- 
roundings. A  more  careful  analysis  of  the  plot  shows, 
however,  that  what  turns  the  ambitions  of  Medardus 
into  dreams  and  words  is  his  susceptibility  to  the 
charms  of  a  woman.  Once  within  the  magic  circle  of 
her  power,  everything  else — the  danger  of  his  country, 
the  death  of  his  sister,  his  duty  to  avenge  the  death  of 
his  father — becomes  secondary  to  his  passion.  And 
each  time  he  tries  to  rise  above  that  passion,  the  re- 
appearance of  the  woman  is  sufficient  to  deflect  him 
from  his  purpose.  It  is  as  if  Schnitzler  wanted  to 
suggest  that  the  greatest  weakness  of  the  Viennese 
character  lies  in  its  sensuous  concern  with  sex  to  the 
detriment  of  all  other  vital  interests.  To  me  it  is  a 
very  remarkable  thing  to  think  that  such  a  play  was 
performed  a  large  number  of  times  at  one  of  the  fore- 
most theaters  in  Vienna,  and  that,  apparently,  it  re- 
ceived a  very  respectful  hearing.  I  cannot  but  wonder 
what  would  happen  here,  if  a  play  were  put  on  the 
stage  dealing  in  a  similar  spirit  with  the  American 
character. 

"The  soul  is  a  vast  country,  where  many  different 
things  find  place  side  by  side,"  says  Dr.  Theodor  Reik 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

in  his  interesting  volume  named  "Arthur  Schnitzler  als 
Psycholog"  (Minden,  1913).  Thus  he  explains  the 
meaning  of  the  title  given  to  "The  Vast  Country" 
{Das  Weite  Land).  And  I  don't  think  it  is  possible 
to  get  closer  than  that.  Nowhere  has  Schnitzler  been 
more  casual  in  his  use  of  what  is  commonly  called  plot. 
Nowhere  has  he  scorned  more  completely  to  build  his 
work  around  any  particular  "red  thread."  Event 
follows  event  with  seeming  haphazardness.  The  only 
thing  that  keeps  the  play  from  falling  apart  is  the 
logical  development  of  each  character.  It  is,  in  fact, 
principally,  if  not  exclusively,  a  series  of  soul-studies. 
What  happens  serves  merely  as  an  excuse  to  reveal 
the  reaction  of  a  certain  character  to  certain  external 
pressures  or  internal  promptings.  But  viewed  in  this 
light,  the  play  has  tremendous  power  and  significance. 
Dr.  Reik's  book,  to  which  I  just  referred,  has  been 
written  to  prove  the  direct  connection  between  Schnitz- 
ler's  art  and  the  new  psychology  established  by  Dr. 
Sigmund  Freud  of  Vienna.  That  the  playwright  must 
have  studied  the  Freudian  theories  seems  more  than 
probable.  That  they  may  have  influenced  him  seems 
also  probable.  And  that  this  influence  may  have  helped 
him  to  a  clearer  grasp  of  more  than  one  mystery 
within  the  human  soul,  I  am  willing  to  grant  also. 
What  I  want  to  protest  against,  is  the  attempt  to  make 
him  out  an  exponent  of  any  particular  scientific  theory. 
He  is  an  observer  of  all  life.  He  is  what  Amadeus  in 
"Intermezzo"  ironically  charges  Albert  Rhon  with  be- 
ing: "a  student  of  the  human  soul."  And  he  has  un- 
doubtedly availed  himself  of  every  new  aid  that  might 
be  off^ered  for  the  analysis  and  interpretation  of  that 
soul.    The  importance  of  man's  sub-conscious  life  seems 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

to  have  been  clear  to  him  in  the  early  days  of  "Anatol," 
and  it  seems  to  have  grown  on  him  as  he  matured.  An- 
other Freudian  conception  he  has  also  made  his  own — 
that  of  the  close  connection  between  man's  sexual  life 
and  vital  phenomena  not  clearly  designed  for  the  ex- 
pression of  that  life.  But — to  return  to  the  point  I 
have  already  tried  to  make — it  would  be  dangerous 
and  unjust  to  read  any  work  of  his  as  the  dramatic 
effort  of  a  scientific  theorizer. 

Schnitzler  is  of  Jewish  race.  In  Vienna  that  means 
a  great  deal  more  than  in  London,  Stockholm  or  New 
York.  It  means  an  atmosphere  of  contempt,  of  sus- 
picion, of  hatred.  It  means  frequently  complete  isola- 
tion, and  always  some  isolation.  It  means  a  constant 
sense  of  conflict  between  oneself  and  one's  surround- 
ings. All  these  things  are  reflected  in  the  works  of 
Schnitzler — more  particularly  the  sense  of  conflict  and 
of  isolation.  Life  itself  is  blamed  for  it  most  of  the 
time,  however,  and  it  is  only  once  in  a  great  while  that 
the  specific  and  localized  cause  is  referred  to — as  in 
"Literature,"  for  instance.  And  even  when  Schnitzler 
undertakes,  as  he  has  done  in  his  latest  play,  "Pro- 
fessor Bernhardi,"  to  deal  directly  with  the  situation 
of  the  Jew  within  a  community  with  strong  anti- 
Semitic  tendencies,  he  does  not  appear  able  to  keep  his 
mind  fixed  on  that  particular  issue.  He  starts  to  dis- 
cuss it,  and  does  so  with  a  clearness  and  fairness  that 
have  not  been  equaled  since  the  days  of  Lessing — and 
then  he  drifts  off  in  a  new  direction.  The  mutual 
opposition  between  Jews  and  Catholics  becomes  an 
opposition  between  the  skeptical  and  the  mystical  tem- 
peraments. It  is  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  that  all  differ- 
ences are  unreal  except  those  between  individuals  as 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiil 

such.  And  if  that  be  his  intention,  he  is  right,  I  believe, 
and  his  play  is  the  greater  for  bringing  that  thought 
home  to  us. 

The  play  is  a  remarkable  one  in  many  respects.  It 
deals  largely  with  the  internal  affairs  of  a  hospital. 
An  overwhelming  majority  of  the  characters  are  physi- 
cians connected  with  the  big  hospital  of  which  Pro- 
fessor Bernliardi  is  the  head.  They  talk  of  nothing 
but  what  men  of  that  profession  in  such  a  position 
would  be  likely  to  talk  of.  In  other  words,  they  are 
all  the  time  "talking  shop."  This  goes  on  through 
five  acts.  Throughout  the  entire  play  there  is  not 
the  slightest  suggestion  of  what  the  Broadway  man- 
ager and  the  periodical  editor  call  a  "love  interest." 
And  yet  the  play  holds  you  from  beginning  to  end,  and 
the  dramatic  tension  could  not  be  greater  if  its  main 
theme  were  the  unrequited  love  of  the  professor's  son 
instead  of  his  own  right  to  place  his  duties  as  a  physi- 
cian above  all  other  considerations.  To  one  who  has 
grown  soul-weary  of  the  "triangle"  and  all  other  com- 
binations for  the  exploiting  of  illicit  or  legitimized 
love,  "Professor  Bernhardi"  should  come  as  a  great 
relief  and  a  bright  promise. 


These  are  the  main  outlines  of  Schnitzler's  work  as 
a  dramatist.  They  indicate  a  constant,  steady  growth, 
coupled  with  increased  realization  of  his  own  possi- 
bilities and  powers  as  well  as  of  his  limitations.  In 
all  but  a  very  few  of  his  plays,  he  has  confined  himself 
to  the  life  immediately  surrounding  him — to  the  life 
of  the  Viennese  middle  class,  and  more  particularly  of 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 


the  professional  element  to  which  he  himself  belongs. 
But  on  the  basis  of  a  wonderfully  faithful  portrayal 
of  local  characters  and  conditions,  he  has  managed  to 
rear  a  superstructure  of  emotional  appeal  and  intel- 
lectual clarification  that  must  render  his  work  welcome 
to  thinking  men  and  women  wherever  it  be  introduced. 
And  as  he  is  still  in  the  flower  of  his  manhood,  it  seems 
reasonable  to  expect  that  still  greater  things  may  be 
forthcoming  from  liis  pen. 


SCHNITZLER'S   "ANATOL" 

Spearhead  fences,  yew-tree  hedges, 
Coats  of  arms  no  more  regilded, 
Sphinxes  gleaming   through   the   thickets.  . 
Creakingly   the   gates   swing  open. 

With  its  tritons  sunk  in  slumber, 
And  its  fountains  also  sleeping, 
Mildewed,  lovely,  and  rococo, 
Lo  .  .  .  Vienna,  Canaletto's, 
Dated  Seventeen  and  Sixty. 

Quiet  pools   of  green-brown  waters, 
Smooth  and  framed  in  snow-white  marble, 
Show  between  their  mirrored  statues 
Gold  and  silver  fishes  playing. 
Slender  stems   of  oleander 
Cast  their  prim  array  of  shadows 
On  the  primly  close-cropped  greensward. 
Overhead,  the  arching  branches 
Meet  and  twine  to  sheltering  niches. 
Where  are  grouped  in  loving  couples 
Stiff -limbed  heroines  and  heroes.   .   .   . 
Dolphins   three  pour  splashing  streamlets 
In  three  shell-shaped  marble  basins. 
Chestnut  blossoms,  richly  fragrant, 
Fall  like  flames  and  flutter  downward 
To  be  drowned  within  the  basins.   .   .  . 


xxxvi  SCHNITZLER'S  "ANATOL" 

Music,  made  by  clarinettes  and 
Violins  behind  the  yew-trees, 
Seems  to  come  from  graceful  cupids 
Playing  on  the  balustrade,  or 
Weaving  flowers  into  garlands. 
While  beside  them  other  flowers 
Gayly  stream  from  marble  vases: 
Jasmin,  marigold,  and  elder.  .   .  . 
On  the  balustrade  sit  also 
Sweet  coquettes  among  the  cupids, 
And  some  messeigneurs  in  purple. 
At  their  feet,  on  pillows  resting, 
Or  reclining  on  the  greensward, 
May  be  seen  abbes  and  gallants. 
From  perfumed  sedans  are  lifted 
Other  ladies  by  their  lovers.  .  .  . 
Rays  of  light  sift  through  the  leafage, 
Shed  on  golden  curls  their  luster, 
Break  in  flames  on  gaudy  cushions. 
Gleam  alike  on  grass  and  gravel. 
Sparkle  on  the  simple  structure 
We  have  raised  to  serve  the  moment. 
Vines  and  creepers  clamber  upward, 
Covering  the   slender  woodwork. 
While  between  them  are  suspended 
Gorgeous  tapestries  and  curtains: 
Scenes  Arcadian  boldly  woven. 
Charmingly  designed  by  Watteau.  .  .  . 
In  the  place  of  stage,  an  arbor ; 
Summer  sun  in  place  of  footlights; 
Thus  we  rear  Thaha's  temple 
Where  we  play  our  private  dramas, 
Gentle,  saddening,  precocious.  .  .  . 


SCHNITZLER'S  "ANATOL"  xxxvii 


Comedies  that  we  have  suffered; 
Feelings  drawn   from  past  and  present; 
Evil  masked  in  pretty  phrases; 
Soothing  words  and  luring  pictures; 
Subtle  stirrings,  mere  nuances, 
Agonies,  adventures,  crises.  .  .  . 

Some  are  listening,  some  are  yawning. 
Some  are  dreaming,  some  are  laugliing, 
Some  are  sipping  ices  .   .  .  others 
Whisper  longings  soft  and  languid.  .  .  . 

Nodding  in  the  breeze,  carnations, 
Long-stemmed  white  carnations,  image 
Butterflies  that  swarm  in  sunlight. 
While  a  black  and  long-haired  spaniel 
Barks  astonished  at  a  peacock.  .  .  . 

Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal, 
{Edwin  Bjorkman.) 


CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST    OF    PLAYS 
BY    ARTHUR    SCHNITZLER 

Anatol    (Anatol) ;    seven    dramatic    scenes;    1889-91 

(1893). 
A  Piece  of  Fiction  (Das  Marchen)  ;  a  drama  in  three 

acts;  1891  (1894). 
Paracelsus    (Paracelsus);    a   verse-play    in   one   act; 

1892  (1899). 
Amours    (Liebelei) ;    a    drama    in    three    acts;    1894« 

(1896). 
Outside  the  Game  Laws  (Freiwild)  ;  a  drama  in  three 

acts;  1896  (1897). 
Change   Partners!    (Reigen) ;   ten   dialogues;    1896- 

97  (1903). 
The  Legacy   (Das  Vermachtnis)  ;  a  drama  in  three 

acts;  1897  (1898). 
The  Life  Partner  (Die  Gefahrtin)  ;  a  drama  in  one 

act;  1898  (1899). 
The  Green  Cockatoo  (Der  griine  Kakadu)  ;  a  gro- 
tesque in  one  act;  1898  (1899). 
The  Veil  of  Beatrice  (Der  Schleier  der  Beatrice); 

a  drama  in  five  acts;  1899  (1900). 
The  Lady  With  the  Dagger    (Die   Frau   mit  dem 

Dolche);  a  drama  in  one  act;  1900  (1902). 
Hours  of  Life  (Lebendige  Stunden)  ;  an  act;  1901 

(1902). 


CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST    OF    PLAYS     xxxlx 


End  of  the  Carnival  (Die  letzten  Masken)  ;  a  drama 
in  one  act;  1901  (1902). 

Literature  (Literatur) ;  a  farce  in  one  act;  1901 
(1902). 

The  Puppet  Player  (Der  Puppenspieler)  ;  a  study 
in  one  act;  1902  (1906). 

The  Gallant  Cassian  (Der  tapfere  Cassian)  ;  a  pup- 
pet play  in  one  act;  1903  (1906). 

The  Lonely  Way  (Der  einsame  Weg)  ;  a  drama  in 
five  acts;  1903   (1904). 

Intermezzo  (Zwischenspiel)  ;  a  comedy  in  three  acts; 
1904  (1905). 

The  Greatest  Show  of  All  (Zum  grossen  Wurstel)  ; 
a  burlesque  in  one  act;  1904  (1906). 

The  Call  of  Life  (Der  Ruf  des  Leben)  ;  a  drama  in 
three  acts;  1905  (1906). 

Countess  Mizzie  (Komtesse  Mizzi)  ;  a  comedy  in  one 
act;  1909  (1909). 

Young  Medardus  (Der  junge  Medardus)  ;  a  history 
in  five  acts  with  a  prologue;  1909  (1910). 

The  Vast  Country  (Das  weite  Land)  ;  a  tragicomedy 
in  five  acts;  1910  (1911). 

Professor  Bernhardt  (Professor  Bernhardi)  ;  a  com- 
edy in  five  acts;  1912  (1912). 

The  Gallant  Kassian  (Der  tapfere  Kassian);  a 
musical  comedy  in  one  act,  with  music  by  Oscar 
Straus;  (1909). 

The  Veil  of  Pierrette  (Der  Schleier  der  Pierrette)  ; 
a  comic  opera  in  three  acts,  with  music  by  Ernst 
von  Dohnnanyi;  1909  (not  published). 

The  figures  without  brackets  indicate  the  dates  of 
production  as  given  in  the  collected  edition  of  Arthur 


xl       CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST    OF    PLAYS 

Schnltzler's  works  issued  by  the  S.  Fischer  Verlag, 
Berlin,  1912.  The  figures  within  brackets,  showing 
the  dates  of  publication,  are  taken  from  the  twenty- 
fifth  anniversary  catalogue  of  the  same  house  (Berlin, 
1911),  and  from  C.  G.  Kayser's  "Vollstandiges  Biicher- 
Lexikon"  (Leipzig,  1891-1912). 

*'Anatol"  was  first  published  by  the  Bibliographische 
Bureau  (Berlin,  1893),  and  "A  Piece  of  Fiction"  by  E. 
Pierson  (Dresden,  1894).  Both  were  reprinted  by 
the  Fischer  Verlag  in  1895.  The  original  versions  of 
"A  Piece  of  Fiction"  and  "Amours"  have  been  con- 
siderably revised.  "Change  Partners !"  was  printed 
privately  in  1900,  and  was  subsequently  published  by 
the  Wiener  Verlag,  Vienna.  "The  Gallant  Kassian" 
was  published  by  Ludwig  Doblinger,  Leipzig. 

"The  Green  Cockatoo,"  "Paracelsus"  and  "The  Life 
Partner"  appeared  in  one  volume  with  the  sub-title 
"Three  One-act  Plays."  "Hours  of  Life,"  "The  Lady 
With  the  Dagger,"  "End  of  the  Carnival,"  and  "Liter- 
ature" were  published  together  under  the  title  of  the 
first  play.  "The  Puppet  Player,"  "The  Gallant  Cas- 
sian,"  and  "The  Greatest  Show  of  All"  were  brought 
out  in  a  single  volume  under  the  title  of  "Puppets" 
(Marionetten). 

For  additional  bibliographical  data,  see  "Arthur 
Schnitzler:  a  Bibliography,"  by  Archibald  Henderson 
(Bulletin  of  Bibliography,  Boston,  1913)  ;  "The  Mod- 
ern Drama,"  by  Ludwig  Lewisolm  (New  York,  1915), 
and  "The  Continental  Drama  of  Today,"  by  Barrett 
H.  Clark  (New  York,  1914).  A  good,  though  brief, 
analysis  of  Schnitzler's  work  is  found  in  Dr.  Lewi- 
sohn's    volume. 


A    LIST    OF    FIRST    PERFORiVIANCES    OF 
PLAYS    BY   ARTHUR    SCHNITZLER 

Anatol:     Dcutschcs   Volksthcatcr,  Vienna,  and  Les- 

singtheatcr,  Berlin,  Dec.  3,  1910. 
A  Piece  of  Fiction  :    Deutsches  Volkstheater,  Vienna, 

Dec.  1,  1893. 
Paracelsus:     Burgtlicater,  Vienna,  March  1,  1899. 
Amours:    Burgtheater,  Vienna,  Oct.  9,  1895. 
Outside  the  Game  Laws:     Deutsche  Theater,  Berlin, 

1896. 
The  Legacy:     Burgtheater,  Vienna,  Nov.  30,  1898. 
The  Life  Partner:     Burgtheater,  Vienna,  March  1, 

1899. 
The  Green  Cockatoo:     Burgtheater,  Vienna,  March 

1,  1899. 
The  Veil  of  Beatrice:     Lobetheater,  Breslau,  Dec. 

1,  1900. 
The  Lady  With   the  Dagger:     Deutsche   Theater, 

Berhn,  Jan.  4,  1902. 
Hours  of  Life:     Deutsche  Theater,  Berlin,  Jan.  4, 

1902. 
End  of  the  Carnival:     Deutsche   Theater,  Berlin, 

Jan.  4,  1902. 
Literature  :     Deutsche  Theater,  Berlin,  Jan.  4,  1902. 
The  Puppet  Player:    Deutsche  Theater,  Berlin,  Sep- 
tember, 1903.  ^ 
The  Gallant  Cassian  :    Kleines  Theater,  Berlin,  Oct.  >y\  y   ' 

12,  1905. 


xlil   A    LIST    OF    FIRST    PERFORMANCES 

The  Lonely  Way:     Deutsche  Theater,  Berlin,  Feb. 

13,  1904. 
Intermezzo:       Burgtheater,     Vienna     (with     Joseph 

Kainz  as  Adams),  Oct.  12,  1905. 
The    Greatest    Show    of    All:      Lustspieltheater, 

Vienna,  March  16,  1906. 
The  Call  of  Life:     Lessingtheater,  Berlin,  Feb.  M, 

1906. 
Countess   Mizzie:      Deutsches   Volkstheater,   Vienna, 

January,   1909. 
Young   Medardus:      Burgtheater,   Vienna,   Nov.    24, 

1910. 
The  Vast  Country:    Lessingtheater,  Berlin,  Oct.  14, 

1912. 
Professor  Bernhardi:     Kleines  Theater,  Berlin,  Nov. 

28,  1912. 

The   Veil   of   Pierrette:      Hofopernhaus,   Dresden, 
Jan.  22,   1910. 

Single  scenes  from  "Anatol"  were  given  at  Ischl  in 
the  Summer  of  1893,  and  at  a  matinee  arranged  by  the 
journahstic  society  "Concordia"  at  one  of  the  Vienna 
theaters  in  1909.  A  Czechic  translation  of  the  whole 
series  was  staged  at  Smichow,  Bohemia,  sometime  dur- 
ing the  nineties.  Three  of  the  dialogues  in  "Change 
Partners !"  were  performed  by  members  of  the  Aka- 
demisch-dramatischer  Vere'in  at  Munich  in  1904. 

The  official  records  of  the  Burgtheater  at  Vienna 
show  that,  up  to  the  end  of  1912,  the  eight  Schnitzler 
plays  forming  part  of  its  repertory  had  been  per- 
formed the  following  number  of  times:  "Paracelsus," 
12;    "Amours,"    42;   "The   Legacy,"    11;   "The   Life 


A    LIST    OF    FIRST    PERFORMANCES      xliii 


Partner,"  14;  "The  Green  Cockatoo,"  8 ;  "Intermezzo," 
22 ;  "Young  Medardus,"  43 ;  "The  Vast  Country,"  30. 
The  hst  of  dates  given  above  has  been  drawn  chiefly 
from  "Das  moderne  Drama,"  by  Robert  F.  Arnold 
(Strassburg,  1912);  "Das  Burgtheater:  statistische 
Ruckbhck,"  by  Otto  Rub  (Vienna,  1913),  and  the  cur- 
rent files  of  Biihn^  und  Welt  (Berlin).  For  dates 
of  Schnitzler  performances  in  America  and  England, 
see  the  Henderson  bibliography  previously  mentioned. 


THE    LONELY   WAY 

(Dcr  Einsame  Wcg) 
A   DRAMA   IN    FIVE   ACTS 

1903 


PERSONS 

_  __  f  President  of  the  Acad- 

FrOFESSOR    WeGRAT        .       .        -{  r    Til       1.-        A     i 

[    emy  oi  Plastic  Arts 
Gabrielle His  wife 

^  y Their  children 

JOHANNAj 

Julian  Fichtner 
Stephan  von  Sala 
Irene  Herms 

Dr.  Franz  Reumann A  physician 

Fichtner's  Valet 

Sala's  Valet 

A  Maid  at  the  Wegrats' 


THE  LONELY  WAY 


THE    FIRST    ACT 

The  little  garden  attached  to  Professor  Wegrat*s 
house.  It  is  almost  surrounded  hy  buildings,  so  that 
no  outlook  of  any  kind  is  to  he  had.  At  the  right  in 
the  garden  stands  the  small  two-storied  house  with  its 
woodwork  veranda,  to  which  lead  three  wooden  steps. 
Entries  are  mude  from  the  veranda  as  well  as  from 
either  side  of  the  house.  Near  the  middle  of  the  stage 
is  a  green  garden  table  with  chairs  to  match,  and  also 
a  more  comfortable  armchair.  A  small  iron  bench  is 
placed  against  a  tree  at  the  left. 

Johanna  is  walking  back  and  forth  in  the  garden 
wh-en  Felix  enters,  wearing  the  uniform  of  a  uhlan. 

JOHANNA  {turning  about) 
Felix! 

FELEX 

Yes,  it's  me. 

JOHANNA 

How   arc    you? — And   how  have   you   been   able   to 
get  another  furlough? 

FEUX 

Oh,  it  won't  last  long. — And  how's  mamma? 

JOHANNA 

Doing  pretty  well  the  last  few  days. 


4  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

FELIX 

Do  you  think  she  would  be  scared  if  I  dropped  in 
on  her  unexpectedly. 

JOHANNA 

No.  But  wait  a  little  just  the  same.  She's  asleep 
now.  I  have  just  come  from  her  room. — How  long 
are  you  going  to  stay,  Felix.'* 

FELIX 

To-morrow  night  I'm  off  again. 

JOHANNA  (staring  into  a  fancied  distance) 
Off  .  .  . 

FELIX 

Oh,  it  sounds  big!  But  one  doesn't  get  so  very  far 
off — not  in  any  respect. 

JOHANNA 

And  you  have  wanted  it  so  badly.  .  .  .  (Pointing 
to  his  uniform)  Now  you've  got  it.  And  are  you 
not  satisfied.'' 

FELIX 

Well,  at  any  rate  it  is  the  most  sensible  thing  I  have 
gone  into  so  far.  For  now  I  feel  at  least  that  I 
might  achieve  something  under  certain  circum- 
stances. 

JOHANNA 

I  believe  you  would  make  good  in  any  profession. 

FELIX 

I  have  my  doubts  whether  I  could  get  anywhere  as 
a  lawyer  or  an  engineer.  And  on  the  whole  I  feel 
a  good  deal  better  than  ever  before.  Often  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  hadn't  been  born  at  the  right  time.  I 
think  I  should  have  come  into  the  world  while  there 
was  still  so  much  of  order  left  in  it,  that  one  could 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  5 

venture  all  sorts  of  things  one  couldn't  possibly  ven- 
ture nowadays. 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  but  you  are  free — you've  got  place  to  move. 

FELIX 

Only  within  certain  limits. 

JOHANNA 

They  are  a  great  deal  wider  than  these  at  any  rate. 

FELIX  {looking  around  with  a  smile) 

Well,  this  is  not  a  prison.  .  .  .  Really,  the  garden 
has  turned  out  quite  pretty.  How  bare  it  looked 
when  we  were  children. — What's  that?  A  row  of 
peach  trees.''     That  doesn't  look  bad  at  all. 

JOHANNA 

One  of  Dr.  Reumann's  ideas. 

FELIX 

Yes,  I  should  have  guessed  it. 

JOHANNA 

Why? 

FELIX 

Because  I  can't  believe  any  member  of  our  family 
capable  of  such  a  useful  inspiration.  What  are  his 
chances  anyhow? — I  mean  in  regard  to  that  profes- 
sorship at  Gratz? 

JOHANNA 

I  don't  know  anything  about  it.     (She  turns  a-way) 

FELIX 

I  suppose  mamma  is  outdoors  a  good  deal  these  fine 
days? 

JOHANNA 

Yes. 


6  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

FELIX 

Are  you  still  reading  to  her?    Do  you  try  to  divert 
her  a  little?     To  cheer  her  up? 

JOHANNA 

Just  as  if  it  were  such  an  easy  thing! 

FELIX 

But  you  have  to  put  some  spunk  into  it,  Johanna. 

JOHANNA 

Yes,  Felix,  it's  easy  for  you  to  talk. 

FELIX 

What  do  you  mean? 
JOHANNA  (speakmg  as  if  to  herself) 

I  don't  know  if  you'll  be  able  to  understand  me. 
FELIX  (smiling) 

Why  should  it  all  at  once  be  so  hard  for  me  to  un- 
derstand you? 
JOHANNA  {lookv)ig  Calmly  at  him) 

Now  when  she  is  sick,  I  don't  love  her  as  much  as 

before. 
FELIX  {startled) 

What? 

JOHANNA 

No,  it's  impossible  that  you  could  quite  understand. 
All  the  time  she  is  getting  farther  away  from  us. 
...  It  is  as  if  every  day  a  new  set  of  veils  dropped 
down  about  her. 

FELIX 

And  what  is  the  meaning  of  it? 
JOHANNA  {conti/mies  to  look  at  him  in  the  same  calm 
way) 

FELIX 

You  think  .   .  .    ? 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY 


JOHANNA 

You  know,  Felix,  that  I  never  make  any  mistakes  in 
things  of  that  kind. 

FEL.IX 

I  know,  you  say  .  .  .   ? 

JOHANNA 

When  poor  little  Lillie  von  Sala  had  to  die,  I  was 
aware  of  it  in  advance — before  the  rest  of  you  knew 
that  she  was  sick  even. 

FELIX 

Yes,  you  had  had  a  dream — and  you  were  nothing 
but  a  child. 

JOHANNA 

I  didn't  dream  It.     I  knew  it.      (Brusquely)     It's 
something  I  can't  explain. 
FELIX  (after  a  pause) 

And  papa — has  he  resigned  himself  to  it? 

JOHANNA 

Resigned   himself? — Do   you   think   he   too    can   see 
those  veils  coming  down? 
FELIX  (hating  first  shaken  his  head  slightly) 

Nothing  but  imagination,  Johanna — I  am  sure. — 
But  now  I  want  to  .  .  .  (Turning  toward  the 
house)     Papa  hasn't  come  home  yet? 

JOHANNA 

No.  As  a  rule  he's  very  late  these  days.  He  has 
an  awful  lot  to  do  in  the  Academy. 

FELIX 

I'll  try  not  to  wake  her  up — I'll  be  careful.      (He 
goes  out  by  way  of  the  veranda) 
IWhile  alone  for  a  while,  Johanna  seats  herself  on 
the  garden  bench  with  her  hands  clasped  across  her 
knees.      Sala   enters.      He   is   forty-five,    but   looks 


8  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

younger.  Slender  to  the  verge  of  leanness,  and 
smooth-shaven.  His  brown  hair,  which  has  begun  to 
turn  gray  at  the  temples,  and  which  he  wears  rather 
long,  is  parted  on  the  right  side.  His  features  are 
keen  and  energetic;  his  eyes,  gray  and  clear. 

SALA 

Good  evening,  Miss  Johanna. 

JOHANNA 

Good  evening,  Mr.  von  Sala. 

SALA 

They  told  me  your  mother  was  having  a  little  nap, 
and  so  I  permitted  myself  to  come  out  here  in  the 
meantime. 

JOHANNA 

Felix  just  got  here. 

SALA 

Well?  Have  they  already  granted  him  another  fur- 
lough.'' In  my  days  they  were  stricter  in  that  regi- 
ment. However,  we  were  then  stationed  near  the 
border — somewhere  in  Galicia. 

JOHANNA 

I  can  never  keep  in  mind  that  you  have  gone  through 
that  kind  of  thing  too. 

SALA 

Yes,  it's  long  ago  now.  And  it  didn't  last  more 
than  a  couple  of  years.  But  it  was  good  fun  as  I 
look  back  at  it  now. 

JOHANNA 

Like  almost  everything  else  you  have  experienced. 

SALA 

Like  much  of  it. 

JOHANNA 

Won't  you  sit  down? 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  9 

SALA 

Thank  you.  (He  seats  himself  on  the  support  of 
the  armchair)  Am  I  permitted?  {Johannn  having 
nodded  assent,  he  takes  a  cigarette  from  his  case 
and  lights  it) 

JOHANNA 

Are  you  already  settled  in  your  new  place,  Mr.  von 
Sala  ? 

SALA 

I  move  in  to-morrow. 

JOHANNA 

And  it  gives  you  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  doesn't  it? 

SALA 

That  would  be  a  little  premature. 

JOHANNA 

Are  you  superstitious? 

SALA 

Well,  for  that  matter — yes. — But  that  was  not  what 
I  had  in  mind.  I  only  take  possession  temporarily, 
not  for  good. 

JOHANNA 

Why  not? 

SALA 

I'm  going  abroad — for  a  prolonged  stay. 

JOHANNA 

Oh?  You  are  to  be  envied.  I  wish  I  could  do  tlie 
same — go  here  and  there  in  the  world,  and  not 
bother  myself  about  a  single  human  being. 

SALA 

Still  at  it? 

JOHANNA 

Still  at  it.  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean? 


10  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

SALA 

Oh,  I  recall  how  the  same  kind  of  schemes  for  travel- 
ing used  to  occupy  your  mind  when  you  were  noth- 
ing but  a  little  girl.  What  was  it  you  wanted  to 
become? — A  ballet  dancer,  I  think.  Wasn't  that  it.? 
A  very  famous  one,  of  course. 

JOHANNA 

Why  do  you  say  that  as  if  it  were  nothing  at  all  to 
be  a  ballet  dancer?  {Without  looking  at  him)  You, 
in  particular,  Mr.  von  Sala,  should  not  be  talking 
like  that. 

SALA 

Why  not  I,  in  particular? 
JOHANNA  {glances  up  calmly  at  him) 

SALA 

I  don't  quite  make  out  what  you  mean,  Miss  Jo- 
hanna. .  .  .  Unless  I  must  .  .  .  {Simply)  Jo- 
hanna, did  you  know  at  the  time  that  I  was  looking 
at  you? 

JOHANNA 

When? 

SALA 

Last  year,  when  you  were  in   the  country,  and  I 
came  out  once  and  stayed  over  night  in  your  attic. 
It  was  bright  moonlight,  and  I  thought  I  could  see 
a  fairy  gliding  back  and  forth  in  the  meadow. 
JOHANNA  {nods  with  a  smile) 

SALA 

And  it  was  for  me? 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  I  saw  you  very  well,  where  you  stood  behind  the 
curtain. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  11 

SALA  (after  a  brief  pause) 

I  suppose  you  will  never  dance  like  that  for  other 
people  ? 

JOHANNA 

Why  not? — I  have  already.  And  then,  too,  you 
were  looking  on.  Of  course,  it  was  a  good  while 
ago. — It  happened  on  one  of  the  Greek  islands.  A 
large  number  of  men  stood  in  a  circle  around  me 
.  .  .  you  were  one  of  them  .  .  .  and  I  was  a  slave 
girl  from  Lydia. 

SALA 

A  princess  in  captivity. 

JOHANNA  (earnestly) 

Don't  you  believe  in  such  things? 

SALA 

If  you  want  me  to — certainly. 
JOHANNA  (still  very  serious) 

You  should  believe  everything  in  which  the  rest  can- 
not believe. 

SALA 

When  the  time  comes  for  it,  I  suppose  I  shall. 

JOHANNA 

You  see — I  can  rather  believe  anything  than  that  I 
should  now  be  in  the  world  for  the  first  time.  And 
there  are  moments  when  I  recall  quite  clearly  all 
sorts  of  things. 

SALA 

And  at  that  time  you  had  such  a  moment? 

JOHANNA 

Yes,  a  year  ago,  when  I  was  dancing  for  you  in  the 
meadow  that  moonlit  summer  night.  I  am  sure  it 
was  not  the  first  time,  Mr.  von  Sala.    (After  a  short 


12  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

pause,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone)    Where  are 
you  going  anyhow? 
SALA  (falli/ng  into  the  same  tone) 
To  Bactria,  Miss  Johanna. 

JOHANNA 

Where? 

SALA 

To  Bactria.  That's  quite  a  remarkable  country, 
and  what's  most  remarkable  about  it  is  that  it 
doesn't  exist  any  longer.  What  it  means  is  that  I 
am  joining  an  expedition  which  will  start  next  No- 
vember. You  have  read  of  it  in  the  papers,  haven't 
you? 

JOHANNA 

No. 

SALA 

The  proposition  is  to  make  excavations  where  it  is 
supposed  the  ancient  Ecbatana  stood  once — some 
six  thousand  years  ago.  That  goes  even  farther 
back  than  your  Lydian  period,  you  see. 

JOHANNA 

When  did  you  get  hold  of  this  idea? 

SALA 

Only  a  few  days  ago.  Conversationally,  so  to  speak. 
Count  Ronsky,  who  is  at  the  head  of  the  matter, 
inspired  me  with  a  great  desire  to  go.  That  wasn't 
very  hard,  however.  He  stirred  an  old  longing 
within  me.  (With  more  spirit)  Think  of  it.  Miss 
Johanna:  to  be  watching  with  your  own  eyes  the 
gradual  rising  of  such  a  buried  city  out  of  the 
ground — house  by  house,  stone  by  stone,  century  by 
century.  No,  it  wasn't  meant  that  I  should  pass 
away  until  I  had  had  this  wish  of  mine  fulfilled. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  13 

JOHANNA 

Why  talk  of  dying  then? 

SALA 

Is  there  ever  a  blissful  moment  in  any  decent  man's 
life  when  he  can  think  of  anything  else  in  his  inner- 
most soul? 

JOHANNA 

I  don't  suppose  a  single  wish  of  yours  was  ever  left 
unfulfilled. 

SAIiA 

Not  a  single  one  .  .   .    ? 

JOHANNA 

I  know  that  you  have  also  had  many  sad  experi- 
ences. But  frequently  I  believe  you  have  longed  for 
those  too. 

SALA 

Longed  for  them  .  .  .  ?  You  may  be  right,  per- 
haps, in  saying  that  I  enjoyed  them  when  they  came. 

JOHANNA 

How  perfectly  I  understand  that!  A  life  without 
sorrow  would  probably  be  as  bare  as  a  life  without 
liappiness.     (Pause)   How  long  ago  is  it  now? 

SALA 

What  are  you  thinking  of? 

JOHANNA 

That  Mrs.  von  Sala  died? 

SALA 

It's  seven  years  ago,  almost  to  a  day. 

JOHANNA 

And  Lillie — the  same  year? 

SALA 

Yes,  Lillie  died  a  month  later.  Do  you  often  think 
of  Lillie,  Miss  Johanna? 


14  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act 


JOHANNA 

Quite  often,  Mr.  von  Sala.  I  have  never  had  a  girl 
friend  since  that  time.  (As  if  to  herself)  She  too 
would  have  to  be  called  "miss"  now.  She  was  very 
pretty.  She  had  black  hair  with  a  bluish  glint  in  it 
like  your  wife,  and  the  same  clear  eyes  that  you 
have,  Mr.  von  Sala.  {As  if  to  herself)  "Then  both 
of  them  walked  hand  in  hand  along  the  gloomy  road 
that  leads  through  sunlit  land.   .   .   ." 

SALA 

What  a  memory  you  have,  Johanna. 

JOHANNA 

Seven  years  ago  that  was.  .  .  .  Remarkable! 

SALA 

Why  remarkable? 

JOHANNA 

You  are  building  a  house,  and  digging  out  sub- 
merged cities,  and  writing  queer  poetry — and  hu- 
man beings  who  once  meant  so  much  to  you  have 
been  rotting  in  their  graves  these  seven  years — and 
you  are  still  almost  young.  How  incomprehensible 
the  whole  thing  is ! 

SALA 

"Thou  that  livest  on,  cease  thou  thy  weeping,"  says 
Omar  Nameh,  who  was  born  at  Bagdad  in  the  year 
412  of  the  Mohammedan  era  as  the  son  of  a  cobbler. 
For  that  matter,  I  know  a  man  who  is  only  thirty- 
eight.     He  has  buried  two  wives  and  seven  children, 
not  to  speak  of  grandchildren.     And  now  he  is  play- 
ing the  piano  in  a  shabby  little  Prater  ^  restaurant, 
» The  Prater  is  at  once  the  Central  Park  and  the  Coney  Island 
of  Vienna,  plus  a  great  deal  more — a  park  with  an  area  of  2,000 
acres  bounded   by  the   Danube   on   one  side   and   by   the  Danube 
Canal  on  the  other,  full  of  all  kinds  of  amusement  places. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  15 

while  artists  of  both  sexes  show  off  their  tights  and 
their  fluttering  skirts  on  the  platform.  And  recently, 
when  the  pitiful  performance  had  come  to  an  end 
and  they  were  turning  out  the  lights,  he  went  right 
on,  without  apparent  reason,  and  quite  heedless  of 
everything,  playing  away  on  that  frightful  old 
rattle-box  of  his.  And  then  Ronsky  and  I  asked 
him  over  to  our  table  and  had  a  chat  with  him.  And 
then  he  told  us  that  the  piece  he  had  just  played 
was  his  own  composition.  Of  course,  we  compli- 
mented him.  And  then  his  eyes  lit  up,  and  he  asked 
us  in  a  voice  that  shook:  "Gentlemen,  do  you  think 
my  piece  will  make  a  hit.?"  He  is  thirty-eight  years 
old,  and  his  career  has  come  to  an  end  in  a  small 
restaurant  where  his  public  consists  of  nurse-girls 
and  non-commissioned  officers,  and  his  one  longing 
is — to  get  their  applause ! 
BEIT  MANN   (enters) 

Good  evening.  Miss  Johanna.  Good  evening,  Mr.  von 
Sala.  (Shakes  hands  with  both  of  them  at  the  same 
time)   How  are  you? 

SAI.A 

Fine.  You  don't  suppose  one  must  be  your  victim 
all  the  time  because  one  has  had  the  honor  of  con- 
sulting you  once? 

KEUMANN 

Oh,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  However,  there  are 
people  who  feel  just  that  way. — I  suppose  your 
mother  is  having  a  little  rest.  Miss  Johanna? 
JOHANNA  (who  apparently  has  been  startled  by  the 
few  words  exchanged  between  the  physician  and 
Sala,  and  who  is  looking  intently  at  the  latter)  She 
is  probabl}"^  awake  by  this  time.     Felix  is  with  her. 


16  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

REUMANN 

"Felix.  .  .  .  ?  You  haven't  telegraphed  for  him, 
have  you? 

JOHANNA 

Not  that  I  know  of.     Who  could  have.  ....'' 

REUMANN 

I  only  wondered.  Your  father  is  inchned  to  get 
frightened. 

JOHANNA 

There  they  are  now. 
MRS.  WEGRAT  {enters  from  the  veranda  with  Felix) 
How  are  you,  my  dear  Doctor?    What  do  you  think 
of  the  surprise  I  have  just  had? 
[All  the  men  shake  hands. 

MRS.   WEGRAT 

Good  evening,  Mr.  von  Sala. 

SALA 

I  am  delighted  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Mrs.  We- 
grat. 

MRS,    WEGRAT 

Yes,  I  am  doing  a  little  better.  If  only  the  gloomy 
season  were  not  so  close  at  hand. 

SAI>A 

But  now  the  finest  time  of  the  year  is  coming.  When 
the  woods  sparkle  with  red  and  yellow,  and  a  golden 
mist  lies  on  the  hills,  and  the  sky  grows  pale  and 
remote  as  if  it  were  scared  by  its  own  infinity.  .  .  .    ! 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

Yes,  that  ought  to  be  worth  seeing  once  more. 

REUMANN  (reproachfidli/) 
Mrs.  Wegrat.  .   .   . 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  17 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

Pardon  me — but  thoughts  of  that  kind  will  come. 
(Brightening  up  a  little)  If  I  only  knew  how  much 
longer  I  might  count  on  my  dear  doctor? 

EEUMANN 

I  can  reassure  you  on  that  score,  madam:  I  shall 
stay  in  Vienna. 

MRS.    WEGEAT 

What.''     Has  the  matter  been  settled  already? 

REUMANN 

Yes. 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

So  another  man  has  actually  been  called  to  Gratz? 

REUMANH 

No,  not  that  way.  But  the  other  man,  who  was 
practically  sure  of  the  place,  has  broken  his  neck 
climbing  a  mountain. 

FELIX 

But  then  your  chances  should  be  better  than  ever. 
Whom  could  they  possibly  consider  besides  you? 

REUMANN 

I  suppose  my  chances  wouldn't  be  bad.  But  I  have 
preferred  to  forgo  them. 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

How? 

REUMANN 

I  won't  accept  the  call. 

MRS.   WEGRAT 

Is  that  out  of  superstition? 

FELIX 

Or  out  of  pride? 


18  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

EEUMANN 

Neither.  But  the  thought  of  having  another  man's 
misfortune  to  thank  for  my  own  advancement  would 
be  extremely  painful  to  me.  Half  my  life  would  be 
spoiled  for  me.  That  is  neither  superstition  nor 
pride,  you  see,  but  just  commonplace,  small-minded 
vanity. 

SAI/A 

You're  a  subtle  one,  Doctor. 

MRS.   WEGRAT 

Well,  all  I  gather  is  that  you  are  going  to  stay. 
Which  shows  how  mean  your  thoughts  grow  when 
you  are  sick. 

REUMANN  (changmg  the  subject  on  purpose) 
Well,  Felix,  how  do  you  find  life  in  a  garrison.'' 

FELIX 

Fine. 

MRS.   WEGRAT 

So  you  are  really  satisfied,  boy? 

FELIX 

I  feel  very  thankful  to  all  of  you.  Especially  to 
you,  mamma. 

MRS.   WEGRAT 

Why  to  me  especially?  After  all,  the  decision  lay 
with  your  father  in  the  last  instance. 

EEUMANN 

He  would,  of  course,  have  preferred  to  see  you 
choose  a  more  peaceful  calling. 

SALA 

Oh,  but  to-day  there  is  none  more  peaceful. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  19 

FELIX 

That's  where  you  are  right,  Mr.  von  Sala. — By  the 
by,  I  was  to  give  you  the  regards  of  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  Schrotting. 

SALA 

Thank  you.     Does  he  still  remember  me? 

FELIX 

Not  he  alone.     We  are  constantly  being  reminded 
of  you — at  every  meal,  in  fact.     Yours  is  among  the 
pictures   of   former   officers   that  hang  in   the   mess 
rooms. 
WEGRAT  (enters) 

Good  evening. — Why,  Felix,  are  you  here  again? 
What  a  surprise ! 

FELIX 

Good  evening,  papa.  I  have  applied  for  a  two-day 
furlough. 

WEGEAT 

Furlough  .  .  .  furlough?  A  real  one?  Or  is  it  an- 
other one  of  those  little  brilliant  tricks? 

FELIX   {cheerjvlly  and  without   taking  offence) 
I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  fibbing,  papa,  am  I? 

WEGEAT  (in  the  same  tone) 

I  meant  no  offense,  my  boy.  Even  if  you  had  been 
guilty  of  deserting  the  flag,  your  longing  to  see 
your  mother  would  be  sufficient  excuse  for  you. 

MRS.   WEGEAT 

To  see  his  parents,  you  mean. 

WEGEAT 

Of  course — to  see  us  all.  But  as  you  are  a  littU 
under  the  weather,  you  come  foremost  just  now. — 
Well,  how  are  you  getting  along,  Gabrielle?  Better, 
are  you  not?     (In  a  low  voice,  almost  timidly)     My 


\ 


20  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

love  .  .  .   {He  strokes  her  brow  and  hair)     Love 
.   .  .  The  air  is  so  mild. 

SALA 

We  are  having  a  wonderful  Autumn. 

REUMANN 

Have  you  just  got  away  from  the  Academy,  Pro- 
fessor? 

WEGRAT 

Yes.  Now,  when  I  am  also  the  president  of  it,  there 
is  a  whole  lot  to  do — and  all  of  it  is  not  pleasant  or 
grateful.  But  I  seem  to  be  made  for  it,  as  they  have 
insisted.  And  I  suppose  it  will  have  to  go  on  this 
way.  (With  a  smile)  As  somebody  once  called  me 
— an  art-official. 

SALA 

Don't  be  so  unjust  to  yourself,  Professor. 

MRS.  WEGRAT 

You  must  have  been  walking  all  that  long  way  home 
again  ? 

WEGRAT 

I  even  went  out  of  my  way  some  distance — to  pass 

across  the  old  Turkish  fort.^     I  am  awfully  fond  of 

that  road.     On  evenings  like  this  the  whole  city  lies 

beneath  you  as  if  bathed  in  a  silvery  mist. — By  the 

by,  Gabrielle,  I  have  some  greetings  to  deliver.     I 

met  Irene  Herms. 

*  The  place  where  the  Turks  fortified  themselves  before  driven 
from  Vienna  by  John  Sobieski  in  1683  is  now  a  small  park, 
"TiirkenscJianz-Park,"  located  in  Dobling,  one  of  the  northwestern 
quarters  of  Greater  Vienna.  Only  a  little  ways  south  of  this  park, 
and  overlooking  it,  stands  the  Astronomical  Observatory,  not  far 
from  which  Sdmitzler  has  been  living  for  a  number  of  years. 
Numerous  references  to  localities  in  this  play  indicate  that  he  has 
placed  the  Wegrat  home  in  that  very  villa  quarter  of  Wahring, 
where  he  himself  is  so  thoroughly  at  home. 


,'/  /■ 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  21 

MKS.  WEGRAT 

Is  she  in  Vienna? 

WEGEAT 

Just  passing  tlirough.     She  intends  to  call  on  you. 

SALA 

Has  she  still  got  an  engagement  at  Hamburg? 

WEGRAT 

No,  she  has  left  the  stage,  she  told  me,  and  is  now 
living  in  the  country  with  her  married  sister. 

JOHANNA 

I  saw  her  once  in  a  play  of  yours,  Mr.  von  Sala. 

SAIiA 

Then  you  must  have  been  a  very  small  girl  indeed. 

JOHANNA 

She  played  a  Spanish  princess. 

SALA 

Unfortunately.  For  princesses  were  not  at  all  in 
her  line.  She  has  never  in  her  life  been  able  to  treat 
verse  properly. 

REUMANN 

And  you  can  still  bear  that  in  mind,  Mr.  von  Sala — 
that  some  lady  on  some  occasion  happened  to  handle 
your  verse  badly? 

SALA 

Well,  why  shouldn't  I,  my  dear  Doctor?  If  you 
were  living  at  the  center  of  the  earth,  you  would 
know  that  all  things  are  of  equal  weight.  And  were 
you  floating  in  the  center  of  the  universe,  you  would 
suspect  that  all  things  are  of  equal  importance. 

MRS.  WEGRAT 

How  does  she  look  anyhow? 

WEGRAT 

She  is  still  very  pretty. 


22  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

SALA 

Has  she  preserved  her  resemblance  to  that  portrait 
of  hers  which  is  hanging  in  the  Museum? 

FELIX 

What  portrait  is  that? 

JOHANNA 

Is  her  portrait  really  in  the  Museum? 

SALA 

Oh,  you  know  it.  In  the  catalogue  it  is  labeled 
^'Actress" — just  "Actress."  A  young  woman  in  the 
costume  of  a  harlequin,  over  which  she  has  draped  a 
Greek  toga,  while  at  her  feet  lie  a  confused  heap 
of  masks.  With  her  staring  glance  turned  toward 
the  spectators,  she  stands  there  all  alone  on  an 
empty,  dusky  stage,  surrounded  by  odd  pieces  of 
misfit  scenery — one  wall  of  a  room,  a  forest  piece, 
part  of  an  old  dungeon.   .   .   . 

FELIX 

And  the  background  shows  a  southern  landscape 
with  palms  and  plane  trees   .   .   .    ? 

SALA 

Yes,  and  it  is  partly  raised  so  that  still  farther  off 
you  can  see  a  pile  of  furniture,  steps,  goblets,  chan- 
dehers — all  glittering  in  full  daylight. 

FELIX 

But  that's  Julian  Fichtner's  picture? 

SALA 

Exactly. 

FELIX 

I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that  the  figure  of  that 
woman  was  meant  for  Irene  Herms. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  23 

WEGRAT 

Twenty-five  years  have  passed  since  he  painted  that 
picture.  It  caused  a  tremendous  sensation  at  the 
time.  It  was  his  first  big  success.  And  to-day  I  sup- 
pose there  are  lots  of  people  who  no  longer  remem- 
ber his  name. — Come  to  think  of  it,  I  asked  Irene 
Herms  about  him.  But  strange  to  say,  not  even 
his  "perennial  best  girl"  could  tell  where  in  this 
world  he  happens  to  be  straying. 

FELIX 

I  talked  with  him  only  a  few  days  ago. 

WEGRAT 

What?  You  have  seen  Julian  Fichtner.''  He  was  in 
Salzburg.'*— When .'' 

FELIX 

Only  about  three  or  four  days  ago.     He  looked  me 

up,  and  we  spent  the  evening  together. 

[Mrs.    Wegrat  throws  a  quick  glance  at  Dr.  Reu- 

mann. 

WEGRAT 

How  is  he  doing.'*     What  did  he  tell  you.'* 

FELIX 

He  has  turned  rather  gray,  but  otherwise  he  didn't 
seem  to  have  changed  at  all. 

WEGRAT 

How  long  can  it  be  now  since  he  left  Vienna.'*  Two 
years,  isn't  it? 

MRS.  WEGRAT 

A  little  more. 

FELIX 

He  has  traveled  far  and  wide. 

SALA 

Yes,  now  and  then  I  have  had  a  postcard  from  him. 


24  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

WEGEAT 

So  have  we.     But  I  thought  you  and  he  were  corre- 
sponding regularly. 

SAIiA 

Regularly.?     Oh,  no. 

JOHANNA 

Isn't  he  a  friend  of  yours.'* 

SALA 

As  a  rule  1  have  no  friends.     And  if  I  have  any,  I 
repudiate  them. 

JOHANNA 

But  you  used  to  be  quite  intimate  with  him. 

SALA 

He  with  me  rather  than  I  with  him. 

FELIX 

What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  von  Sala.'' 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  I  can  understand  it.     I  suppose  you  have  had 
the  same  experience  with  most  people. 

SAI>A 

Something  very  much  like  it,  at  least. 

JOHANNA 

Yes,  one  can  see  it  from  what  you  write,  too. 

SALA 

I  hope   so.      Otherwise  it  might  just   as  well  have 
been  written  by  somebody  else. 

WEGRAT 

Did  he  say  when  he  would  be  back  in  Vienna.'' 

FELIX 

Soon,   I   think.     But  he  didn't  say  very  definitely. 

JOHANNA 

I  should  like  to  see  Mr.  Fichtner  again.     I  am  fond 
of  that  kind  of  people. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  £5 

WEGRAT 

What  do  you  mean  by  "that  kind  of  people"? 

JOHANNA 

Wlio  are  always  arriving  from  some  far-off  place. 

WEGRAT 

But  as  a  rule  he  never  arrived  from  far-off  places 
when  you  knew  him,  Johanna.  .  .  .  He  was  living 
right  here. 

JOHANNA 

What  did  it  matter  whether  he  was  living  here  or 
elsewhere? — Even  when  he  came  to  see  us  daily,  it 
was  always  as  if  he  had  just  arrived  from  some  great 
distance. 

WEGRAT 

Oh,  of  course.  .  .  . 

FELIX 

I  had  often  the  same  feeling. 

WEGRAT 

Well,  it's  strange  how  he  has  been  knocking  about  in 
the  world — these  last  few  years  at  least. 

SA'LA 

Don't  you  think  his  restlessness  goes  farther  back? 
Were  you  not  students  together  in  the  Academy? 

WEGRAT 

Yes.  And  to  know  him  properly,  you  must  have 
known  him  then.  There  was  something  fascinating 
about  him  as  a  young  man,  something  that  dazzled. 
Never  have  I  known  anybody  whom  the  term  "of 
great  promise"  fitted  so  completely. 

SAlvA 

Well,  he  has  kept  a  whole  lot  of  it. 

WEGRAT 

But  think  of  all  he  might  have  achieved! 


26  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

EEUMANN 

I  believe  that  what  you  might  achieve  you  do  achieve. 

WEGRAT 

Not  always,  Julian  was  undoubtedly  destined  for 
higher  things.  What  he  lacked  was  the  capacity 
for  concentration,  the  inward  calm.  He  could  never 
feel  at  home  for  good  anywhere.  And  the  misfor- 
tune has  been  that  in  his  own  works,  too,  he  has  lived 
only  as  a  transient,  so  to  speak. 

FELIX 

He  showed  me  a  couple  ^f  sketches  he  had  made  re- 
cently. 

WEGRAT 

Good.? 

FELIX 

To  me  there  was  something  gripping  about  them. 

MRS.  WEGRAT 

Why  gripping?     What  kind  of  pictures  were  they? 

FELIX 

Landscapes.  And  as  a  rule  very  pleasant  ones  at 
that. 

JOHANNA 

Once  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  Spring  landscape,  very  sun- 
lit and  soft,  and  yet  it  made  me  weep. 

SALA 

Yes,  the  sadness  of  certain  things  lies  much  deeper 
than  we  commonly  suspect. 

WEGRAT 

So  he's  working  again?  Then,  perhaps,  we  may  ex- 
pect something  out  of  the  ordinary. 

SALA 

In  the  case  of  anybody  who  has  been  an  artist  once 
you  are  never  safe  against  surprises. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  27 

WEGRAT 

That's  it,  Mr.  von  Sala.  That's  where  the  great 
difference  lies.  In  the  case  of  an  official  you  can 
feel  perfectly  safe  on  that  score.  {With  cheerful 
self-contempt)  Such  a  one  paints  every  year  his 
nice  little  picture  for  the  exhibition,  and  couldn't 
possibly  do  anything  else. 

REUMANN 

It  is  still  open  to  question  who  do  most  for  the  ad- 
vancement of  life  and  art:  officials  like  you.  Pro- 
fessor, or — our  so-called  men  of  genius. 

WEGRAT 

Oh,  I  have  not  the  least  intention  to  play  the  modest 
one.  But  as  to  men  of  genius — we  had  better  not 
talk  of  them  at  all.  There  you  are  dealing  with  a 
world  by  itself,  lying  outside  of  all  discussion — as 
do  the  elements. 

REUMANN 

My  opinion,  I  must  confess,  is  utterly  different. 

WEGRAT 

Oh,  it's  of  no  use  discussing  anybody  but  those  who 
have  distinct  limitations.  And  what  I  have  found 
is — that  he  who  knows  his  own  limitations  best  is  the 
better  man.  And  on  this  point  I  have  pretty  good 
reason  for  self-respect. — Do  you  feel  chilly,  Ga- 
briellc  ? 

MRS.   WEGRAT 

No. 

WEGRAT 

But  you  had  better  pull  the  shawl  a  little  closer 
about  you,  and  then  we  sliould  have  a  little  exercise 
— in  so  far  as  it's  possible  in  here. 


28  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

MRS.  WEGRAT 

All  right. — Please,  Doctor,  give  me  your  arm.  You 
haven't  paid  the  least  attention  to  your  patient  yet. 

REUMANN 

At  your  service ! 

l^The  rest  start  ahead,  Johanna  walking  with  her 
brother,  and  Wegrat  with  Sala.  Dr.  Reumann  and 
Mrs.  Wegrat  seem  about  to  follow,  when  she  sud- 
denly stops. 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

Did  you  notice  his  eyes  light  up — I  mean,  the  eyes 
of  Felix,  when  they  were  talking  of  him?  It  was 
most  peculiar. 

REUMANN 

Men  of  Mr.  Fichtner's  type  appear  undoubtedly 
very  interesting  to  young  people.  They  seem  to 
carry  with  them  an  odor  of  romance. 

MRS.  WEGRAT  (shaking  her  head) 

And  he  looked  him  up.  ...  It  is  perfectly  clear 
that  he  went  to  Salzburg  just  to  see  him  again.  I 
suppose  he  is  beginning  to  feel  a  little  deserted. 

REUMANN 

Why  not  pay  a  visit  to  a  young  friend  when  one 
happens  to  be  near  the  place  where  he  is  living?  I 
can  see  nothing  peculiar  in  that. 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

Perhaps  you  are  right.  Perhaps  I  might  have 
looked  at  the  matter  in  the  same  way  not  long  ago. 
But  now,  in  the  face  of  .  .  .  No,  Doctor,  I  am  not 
going  to  be  sentimental. 

REUMANN 

I  don't  object  to  sentiment,  but  to  nonsense. 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  29 

MRS.  WEGEAT  (smiUng) 

Thank  you. — However,  I  have  occasion  to  think  of 
many  different  things.  And  it  is  no  reason  for  taking 
it  too  seriously, my  dear  friend.  You  know,  of  course, 
that  I  told  you  everything  merely  that  I  might  have 
a  kind  and  sensible  man  with  whom  to  discuss  the 
past — and  not  at  all  to  be  absolved  of  any  guilt. 

REUMANN 

To  give  happiness  is  more  than  being  free  of  guilt. 
And  as  this  has  been  granted  you,  it  is  clear  that 
you  have  made  full  atonement — if  you'll  pardon  the 
use  of  such  a  preposterously  extravagant  term. 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

How  can  you  talk  like  that.'* 

REUMANN 

Well,  am  I  not  right.? 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

Just  as  if  I  couldn't  feel  how  all  of  us,  deceivers  and 
deceived,  must  seem  equally  contemptible  to  you  in 
particular ! 

REUMANN 

Why  to  me  in  particular  .  .  .  ?  What  you  call  con- 
tempt, madam — supposing  I  did  feel  anything  like 
it — would,  after  all,  be  nothing  but  disguised 
envy.  Or  do  you  think  I  lack  the  desire  to  conduct 
my  life  as  I  sec  most  other  people  conducting  theirs? 
I  simply  haven't  the  knack.  If  I  am  to  be  frank, 
madam — the  deepest  yearning  of  all  within  me  is 
just  to  be  a  rogue:  a  fellow  who  can  dissemble,  se- 
duce, sneer,  make  his  way  over  dead  bodies.  But 
thanks  to  a  certain  shortcoming  in  my  temperament, 
I  am  condemned  to  remain  a  decent  man — and  what 


30  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

is  still  more  painful  perhaps :  to  hear  everybody  say 
that  I  am  one. 

MRS.  WEGRAT  {who  Jitts  1)6671  list6nmg  mith  a  smih) 
I   wonder  whether  you   have   told   the    truth   about 
what  is  keeping  you  here  in  Vienna? 

EEUMANN 

Certainly.  Indeed,  I  have  no  other  reason.  I  have 
no  right  to  have  any  other.  Don't  let  us  talk  any 
more  of  it. 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

Are  we  not  such  good  friends  that  I  can  talk  calmly 
with  you  of  everything.''  I  know  what  you  have  in 
mind.  But  I  believe  that  it  might  be  in  your  power 
to  drive  certain  illusions  and  dreams  out  of  the  soul 
of  a  young  girl.  And  it  would  be  such  a  comfort  to 
me  if  I  could  leave  you  for  good  among  these  people, 
all  of  whom  are  so  near  to  me,  and  who  yet  know 
nothing  whatever  about  each  other — who  are  hardly 
aware  of  their  mutual  relationships  even,  and  who 
seem  fated  to  flitter  away  from  each  other  to  God 
knows  where. 

REUMANN 

We'll  talk  of  those  things,  madam,  when  it's  time  to 
do  so. 

MRS.    WEGRAT 

Of  course,  I  regret  nothing.  I  believe  I  have  never 
regretted  anything.  But  I  have  a  feeling  that  some- 
thing is  out  of  order.  Perhaps  it's  nothing  but  that 
strange  glimmer  in  the  eyes  of  Felix  which  has 
caused  all  this  unrest  within  me.  But  isn't  it  pe- 
culiar— uncanny  almost — to  think  that  a  man  like 
him  may  go  through  the  world  with  all  his  senses 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  31 

open  and  yet  never  know  whom  he  has  to  thank  for 
being  in  the  world? 

REUMANN 

Don't  let  us  indulge  in  generalities,  Mrs.  Wegrat. 
In  that  way  you  can  set  the  most  solid  things  shak- 
ing and  swaying  until  the  steadiest  eyes  begin  to 
grow  dizzy.  My  own  conclusion  is  this:  that  a  lie 
which  has  proved  strong  enough  to  sustain  the  peace 
of  a  household  can  be  no  less  respectable  than  a 
truth  which  could  do  nothing  but  destroy  the  image 
of  the  past,  fill  the  present  with  sorrow,  and  con- 
fuse the  vision  of  tlie  future.  (He  goes  out  with 
Mrs.  Wegrat) 
JOHANNA  {entering  with  Sala) 

In  this  way  one  always  gets  back  to  the  same  spot. 
I  suppose  your  garden  is  bigger,  Mr.  von  Sala.'' 

SALA 

My  garden  is  the  whole  wide  woods — that  is,  for  peo- 
ple whose  fancy  is  not  restrained  by  a  light  fence. 

JOHANNA 

Your  villa  has  grown  very  pretty. 

SALA 

Oh,  you  know  it  then? 

JOHANNA 

A  little  while  ago  I  saw  it  again  for  the  first  time 
in  three  years. 

SALA 

But  three  years  ago  they  hadn't  put  in  tiie  founda- 
tions yet. 

JOHANNA 

To  me  it  was  already  standing  there. 

SALA 

How  mysterious.   .   .  . 


32  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  i 

JOHANNA 

Not  at  all.  If  you  will  only  remember.  Once  we 
made  an  excursion  to  Dornbach  ^ — my  parents,  and 
Felix,  and  I.  There  we  met  you  and  Mr.  Fichtner, 
and  it  happened  on  the  very  spot  where  your  house 
was  to  be  built.  And  now  everything  looks  just  as 
you  described  it  to  us  then. 

SALA 

But  how  did  you  happen  to  be  in  that  vicinity? 

JOHANNA 

Since  mamma  was  taken  sick  I  have  often  had  to 
take  my  walks  alone.  .   .   . 

SALA 

And  when  was  it  you  passed  by  my  house.? 

JOHANNA 

Not  long  ago — to-day. 

SALA 

To-day.? 

JOHANNA 

Yes.     I  went  all  around  it. 

SALA 

Oh?  All  around  it? — Did  you  also  notice  the  little 
gate  that  leads  directly  into  the  woods? 

JOHANNA 

Yes. — But  from  that  spot  the  house  is  almost  in- 
visible. The  leafage  is  very  thick. — Where  have 
you  placed  those  busts  of  the  Roman  emperors? 

SALA 

They  stand  on  columns  at  the  opening  of  an  avenue 
of  trees.  Right  by  is  a  small  marble  bench,  and  in 
front  of  the  bench  a  little  pool  has  been  made. 

^  A  suburb  near  the  western  limits  of  Vienna  and  not  far  from 
the  location  indicated  for  the  Wegrat  home. 


Il 


ACT  i]  THE  LONELY  WAY  33 

JOHANNA  (nodding) 

Just  as  you  told  us  that  time.  .  .  .  And  there  is  a 
greenish  gray  glitter  on  the  water — and  in  the  morn- 
ing the  shadow  from  the  beech  tree  falls  across  it. 
...  I  know.  (She  looks  up  at  him  and  smiles;  both 
go  out  together) 

CURTAIN 


THE    SECOND    ACT 

In  the  home  of  Julian  Fichtner.  A  pleasant,  rather 
distinguished  room  in  a  state  of  slight  disorder.  Books 
are  piled  on  txvo  chairs,  while  on  another  chair  stands 
an  open  traveling  hag.  Julian  is  seated  at  a  writing 
desk,  from  the  drawers  of  which  he  is  taking  out  pa- 
pers. Some  of  these  he  destroys,  while  others  are 
throxsm  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

VALET  {announcing) 

Mr.  von  Sala.     {He  goes  out) 

SALA  {enters.  His  custom  to  walk  up  cMid  down  while 
talking  asserts  itself  strikingly  during  the  follow- 
ing scene.  Now  and  then  he  sits  down  for  a  moment, 
often  only  on  the  arm  of  a  chair.  At  times  he  stops 
beside  Julian,  putting  his  hand  on  the  latter's  shoul- 
der while  speaking.  Two  or  three  times  during  the 
scene  he  puts  his  hand  to  the  left  side  of  his  chest, 
in  a  manner  suggesting  discomfort  of  some  kind. 
But  this  gesture  is  not  sharply  accentuated) 

JUIJAN 

I  am  delighted.     {They  shake  hands)  ' 

SALA 

So  you  got  back  early  this  morning? 

JULIAN 

Yes. 

SALA 

And  mean  to  stay  .  .  .    ? 


ACT  n]  THE  LONELY  WAY  86 

JULIAN 

Haven't  decided  yet.  Things  are  a  little  upset,  as 
you  see.  And  I  fear  they'll  never  be  quite  in  shape 
again.     I  intend  to  give  up  this  place. 

SALA 

Too  bad.  I  have  become  so  accustomed  to  it.  In 
what  direction  are  you  going  to  move.'* 

JULIAN 

It's  possible  that  I  don't  take  any  new  quarters  at 
all  for  a  while,  but  just  keep  on  moving  about  as  I 
have  been  doing  the  last  few  years.  I  am  even  con- 
sidering to  have  my  things  sold  at  auction. 

SALA 

That's  a  thought  which  gets  no  sympathy  from  me. 

JULIAN 

Really,  I  haven't  got  much  sympathy  for  it  myself. 
But  the  material  side  of  the  question  has  to  be  con- 
sidered a  little,  too.  I  have  been  spending  too  much 
these  last  years,  and  it  has  to  be  evened  up  some- 
how. Probably  I'll  settle  down  again  later  on. 
Sometime  one  must  get  back  to  peace  and  work,  I 
suppose. — Well,  how  goes  it  with  you?  What  are 
our  friends  and  acquaintances  doing? 

SALA 

So  you  haven't  seen  anybody  yet? 

JULIAN 

Not  one.  And  you  are  the  only  one  I  have  written 
about  my  being  here. 

SALA 

And  you  have  not  yet  called  on  the  Wegrats? 

JULIAN 

No.     I  even  hesitate  to  go  there. 


36  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

SALA 

Why? 

JULIAN 

After  a  certain  age  it  would  perhaps  be  better  never 
to  put  your  foot  in  any  place  where  your  earlier 
years  were  spent.  It  is  so  rare  to  find  things  and 
people  the  same  as  when  you  left  them.  Isn't  that 
so? — Mrs.  Gabrielle  is  said  to  have  changed  consid- 
erably in  the  course  of  her  sickness.  That's  what 
Felix  told  me  at  least.  I  should  prefer  not  to  see 
her  again.  Oh,  you  can  understand  that,  Sala. 
SALA  (rather  surprised) 

Of  course,  I  understand.  How  long  is  it  you  have 
had  no  news  from  Vienna? 

JULIAN 

I  have  constantly  started  ahead  of  my  mail.  Not  a 
single  letter  has  overtaken  me  during  the  last  fort- 
night.    (Alarmed)    What  has  happened? 

SALA 

Mrs.  Gabrielle  died  a  week  ago. 

JULIAN 

Oh!  (He  is  deeply  moved;  for  a  while  he  walks 
back  and  forth;  then  he  resumes  his  seat  and  says 
after  a  pause)  Of  course,  it  was  to  be  expected, 
and  yet  .  .  . 

SALA 

Her  death  came  easily.   .   .   .  You  know  how  those 
left  behind  always  pretend  to  know  such  things  with 
certainty.     Anyhow,  she  fell  asleep  quietly  one  night 
and  never  woke  up  again. 
JULIAN  (in  a  low  voice) 

Poor  Gabrielle ! — Did  you  see  anything  of  her  to- 
ward the  end? 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  37 

SALA 

Yes,  I  went  there  almost  daily. 

JULIAN 

Oh,  did  you? 

SALA 

Johanna  asked  me.  She  was  literally  afraid  of  be- 
ing alone  with  her  mother. 

JULIAN 

Afraid? 

SALA 

The  sick  woman  inspired  her  with  a  sort  of  horror. 
She  has  calmed  down  a  little  now. 

JULIAN 

What  a  strange  creature.  .  .  .  And  how  does  our 
friend,  the  professor,  bear  up  under  his  loss?  Re- 
signed to  the  will  of  God,  I  suppose? 

SALA 

My  dear  Julian,  the  man  has  a  position.  I  fear  we 
cannot  grasp  that,  we  who  are  Gods  by  the  grace 
of  the  moment — and  also  less  than  men  at  times. 

JULIAN 

Of  course,  Felix  is  not  here? 

SALA 

I  talked  with  him  less  than  an  hour  ago,  and  in- 
formed him  that  you  were  here.  It  made  him  very 
happy  to  have  you  call  on  him  in  Salzburg. 

JULIAN 

It  looked  so  to  me.  And  he  did  me  a  lot  of  good. 
For  that  matter,  I  have  really  thought  of  settling 
down  in  Salzburg. 

SALA 

For  ever? 


38  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 


JULIAN 

For  a  while.  On  account  of  Felix,  too.  His  un- 
spoiled nature  affects  me  very  pleasantly — it  makes 
me  actually  feel  younger.  Were  he  not  my  son,  I 
might  almost  envy  him — and  not  on  account  of  his 
youth  alone.  {With  a  smile)  Thus  there  is  nothing 
left  for  me  but  to  love  him.  I  must  say  that  I  feel 
a  little  ashamed  at  having  to  do  it  incognito,  so  to 
speak. 

SALA 

Are  not  these  feelings  a  little  belated  in  their  ap- 
pearance.'^ 

JULIAN 

Oh,  I  suppose  they  were  there  long  before  I  knew. 
And,  you  know,  I  saw  the  youngster  for  the  first 
time  when  he  was  ten  or  eleven  years  old,  and  it  was 
only  then  I  learned  that  he  was  my  son. 

SALA 

It  must  have  been  a  strange  meeting  between  you 
and  Mrs.  Gabrielle,  ten  years  after  you  had  commit- 
ted that  piece  of  hideous  perfidy — as  our  ancestors 
used  to  put  it. 

JULIAN 

It  wasn't  strange  even.  It  came  about  quite  natu- 
rally. Shortly  after  my  return  from  Paris  I  hap- 
pened to  meet  Wegrat  on  the  street.  Of  course,  we 
had  heard  of  each  other  from  time  to  time,  and  we 
met  as  old  friends.  There  are  people  who  seem 
born  to  a  fate  of  that  kind.  .  .  .  And  as  for  Ga- 
brielle .   .   . 

SALA 

She  had  forgiven  you,  of  course? 


ACT  n]  THE  LONELY  WAY  39 

JULIAN 

Forgiven  .  .  .  ?  It  was  more  or  less  thtan  that. 
Only  once  did  we  talk  of  the  past — she  without 
reproach,  and  I  without  regret:  as  if  the  whole 
story  had  happened  to  somebody  else.  And  after 
that  never  again.  I  might  have  thought  some  mira- 
cle had  wiped  those  earlier  days  out  of  her  memory. 
In  fact,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  there  seemed  to 
be  no  real  connection  between  that  quiet  matron 
and  the  creature  I  had  once  loved.  And  as  for  the 
youngster — well,  you  know — at  first  I  didn't  care 
more  for  him  than  I  might  have  cared  for  any 
other  pretty  and  gifted  child. — Of  course,  ten  years 
ago  my  life  had  a  different  aspect.  I  was  still  cling- 
ing to  so  many  things  which  since  then  have  slipped 
away  from  me.  It  was  only  in  the  course  of  time 
that  I  became  more  and  more  drawn  to  the  house, 
until  at  last  I  began  to  feel  at  home  there. 

SALA 

I  hope  you  never  took  offense  at  my  gradual  dis- 
covery of  the  true  state  of  affairs. 

JULIAN 

You,  at  any  rate,  didn't  think  me  very  sensible.   .   .   . 

SALA 

Why  not?  I  too  find  that  family  life  in  itself  is 
quite  attractive.  Onl}'  it  ought,  after  all,  to  be  ex- 
perienced in  one's  own  family. 

JULIAN 

You  know  very  well  that  I  have  frequently  felt 
something  like  actual  shame  at  the  incongruity  of 
that  relationship.  It  was  in  fact  one  of  the  things 
that  drove  me  away.  Of  course,  there  were  a  lot 
of  other  things  that  pressed  on  me  at  the  time.     Es- 


40  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 


pecially  that  I  couldn't  make  a  real  success  out  of 
my  work. 

SAL,A 

But  you  hadn't  been  exhibiting  anything  for  a  long 
time. 

JULIAN 

It  wasn't  external  success  I  had  in  mind.  I  could 
never  get  into  the  right  mood  any  more,  and  I  hoped 
that  traveling  would  help  me  again,  as  it  had  done 
so  often  in  earlier  years. 

SALA 

And  how  did  you  fare?  We  have  heard  so  little  of 
you  here.  You  might  really  have  written  me  a  little 
more  frequently  and  fully.  For  you  know,  of  course, 
that  I  care  a  great  deal  more  for  you  than  for  most 
other  people.  We  have  such  a  knack  of  giving  each 
other  the  right  cue — don't  you  think.''  There  are 
sentimental  people  who  speak  of  such  a  relation  as 
friendship.  And  it  is  not  impossible  that  we  used 
to  address  each  other  by  our  Christian  names  some 
time  during  the  last  century,  or  that  you  may 
even  have  wept  your  fill  on  my  shoulder.  I  have 
missed  you  more  than  once  during  these  two  years 
— honestly !  On  my  lonely  walks  I  have  quite  fre- 
quently thought  of  our  pleasant  chats  in  the  Dorn- 
bach  park,  where  we  were  in  the  habit  of  disposing 
temporarily  of  (quoting)  "what  is  most  lofty  and 
profound  in  this  our  world." — Well,  Julian,  from 
where  do  you  come  anyhow.'' 

JULIAN 

From  the  Tyrol?  During  the  Summer  I  made  long 
tours  on  foot.  I  have  even  turned  mountain  climber 
in  my  old  days.    I  spent  a  whole  week  at  one  of  those 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  41 

pasturing  grounds  in  the  Alps.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  have 
been  up  to  all  sorts  of  things.  It's  a  wonder  what 
you  can  do  when  you  are  all  alone. 

SALA 

And  you  have  really  been  all  alone? 

JULIAN 

Yes. 

SALA 

All  these  last  years? 

JULIAN 

If  I  don't  count  a  few  nonsensical  interruptions — 
yes. 

SALA 

But  there  should  have  been  no  difficulty  in  that  re- 
spect. 

JULIAN 

I  know.  But  I  cannot  rest  satisfied  with  what  is  still 
offered  me  of  that  kind  of  thing.  I  have  been  badly 
spoiled,  Sala.  Up  to  a  certain  period  my  life  passed 
away  in  a  constant  orgy  of  tenderness  and  passion, 
and  of  power,  you  might  say.  And  that  is  all  over. 
Oh,  Sala,  what  pitiful  fictions  I  have  had  to  steal, 
and  beg,  and  buy  during  these  last  years  !  It  gives 
me  nausea  to  look  back  at  it,  and  it  horrifies  me  to 
look  ahead.  And  I  ask  myself:  can  there  really  be 
nothing  left  of  all  that  glow  with  which  I  once  em- 
braced the  world  but  a  sort  of  silly  wrath  because 
it's  all  over — because  I — / — am  no  less  subject  to 
human  laws  than  anybody  else? 

SALA 

Why  all  this  bitterness,  Julian?  There  is  still  a 
gi'eat  deal  to  be  had  out  of  this  world,  even  when 
some  of  the  pleasures  and  enjoyments  of  our  earlier 


42  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  n 

years  have  begun  to  appear  tasteless  or  unseemly. 
And  how  can  you,  of  all  people,  miss  that  feeling, 
Julian  ? 

JULIAN 

Snatch  his  part  from  an  actor  and  ask  him  if  he 
can  still  take  pleasure  in  the  beautiful  scenery  sur- 
rounding him. 

SALA 

But  you  have  begun  to  work  again  while  you  were 
traveling? 

JULIAN 

Hardly  at  all. 

SALA 

Fehx  told  us  that  you  had  brought  some  sketches 
from  your  trunk  in  order  to  show  him. 

JULIAN 

He  spoke  of  them.^ 

SALA 

Yes,  and  nothing  but  good. 

JULIAN 

Really? 

SALA 

And  as  you  showed  those  things  to  him,  you  must 
have  thought  rather  well  of  them  yourself. 

JULIAN 

That  was  not  the  reason  why  I  let  him  see  them. 
(Walking  bach  and  forth)  I  must  tell  you — at  the 
risk  of  having  you  think  me  a  perfect  fool. 

SALA 

Oh,  a  little  more  or  less  won't  count.     Speak  out. 

JULIAN 

I  wanted  him  at  least  not  to  lose  faith  in  me.  Can 
you  understand  that?     After  all,  he  is  nearer  to  me 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  43 

than  the  rest.  Of  course,  I  know — to  everybody, 
even  to  you,  I  am  one  wlio  has  gone  down,  who  is 
finished — one  of  those  whose  only  talent  was  his 
youth.  It  doesn't  bother  me  very  much.  But  to 
Felix  I  want  to  be  the  man  I  was  once — just  as  I 
still  am  that  man.  When  he  learns  sometime  that  I 
am  his  father,  he  must  be  proud  of  it. 

SALA 

When  he  learns  it  .  .   .    .'' 

JULIAN 

I  have  no  intention  to  keep  it  hidden  from  him  for- 
ever. Now,  when  his  mother  is  dead,  less  than  ever. 
Last  time  I  talked  to  him,  it  became  clear  to  me,  not 
only  that  it  would  be  right,  but  that  it  would  almost 
be  a  duty,  to  tell  him  the  truth.  He  has  a  mind 
for  essentials.  He  will  understand  everything.  And 
I  shall  have  a  human  being  who  belongs  to  me,  who 
knows  that  he  belongs  to  me,  and  for  whose  sake  it 
is  worth  while  to  keep  on  living  in  this  world.  I 
shall  live  near  him,  and  be  with  him  a  good  deal. 
Once  more  I  shall  have  my  existence  put  on  a  solid 
basis,  so  to  speak,  and  not  hung  in  mid-air,  as  it 
is  now.  And  then  I  shall  be  able  to  work  again — 
work  as  I  did  once — as  when  I  was  a  young  man. 
Work,  that  is  what  I  am  going  to  do — and  all  of 
you  will  turn  out  to  have  been  wrong — all  of  you ! 

SALA 

But  to  whom  has  it  occurred  to  doubt  you.''  If  you 
could  only  have  heard  us  talk  of  you  a  little  while 
ago,  Julian.  Everybody  expects  that,  sooner  or 
later,  you — will  find  yourself  again  completely. 


44  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  u 

JULIAN 

Well,  that's  enough  about  me,  more  than  enough. 
Pardon  me.  Let  us  hear  something  about  yourself 
at  last.  I  suppose  you  have  already  moved  into 
your  new  house.'* 

SALA 

Yes. 

JULIAN 

And  what  plans  have  you  for  the  immediate  future.? 

SALA 

I  am  thinking  of  going  to  Asia  with  Count  Ronsky. 

JULIAN 

With  Ronsky?  Are  you  going  to  join  that  expedi- 
tion about  which  so  much  has  been  written? 

SALA 

Yes.  Some  such  undertaking  has  been  tempting  me 
for  a  long  time.  Are  you  perhaps  familiar  with  the 
Rolston  report  on  the  Bactrian  and  Median  excava- 
tions of  1892? 

JULIAN 

No. 

SALA 

Well,  it  is  positively  staggering.  Think  of  it — they 
suspect  that  under  the  refuse  and  the  dust  lies  a 
monster  city,  something  like  the  present  London  in 
extent.  At  that  time  they  made  their  way  into  a 
palace,  where  the  most  wonderful  paintings  were 
found.  These  were  perfectly  preserved  in  several 
rooms.  And  they  dug  out  stairways — built  of  a 
marble  that  is  nowhere  to  be  found  nowadays.  Per- 
haps it  was  brought  from  some  island  which  since 
then  has  sunk  beneath  the  sea.  Three  hundred  and 
twelve  steps  glittering  like  opals  and  leading  down 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  45 

into  unknown  depths,  .  .  .  Unknown  because  they 
ceased  digging  after  they  had  reached  the  three 
hundred  and  twelfth  step — God  only  knows  why!  I 
don't  think  I  can  tell  you  how  those  steps  pique  my 
curiosity. 

JULIAN 

But  it  has  always  been  asserted  that  the  Rolston  ex- 
pedition was  lost? 

SALA 

No,  not  quite  as  bad  as  that.  Out  of  twenty-four 
Europeans,  eight  got  back  after  three  years  in  spite 
of  all — and  half  a  dozen  of  them  had  been  lost  be- 
fore they  ever  got  there.  You  have  to  pass  through 
pretty  bad  fever  belts.  And  at  that  time  they  had 
to  face  an  attack  of  the  Kurds,  too,  by  which  sev- 
eral were  done  for.  But  we  shall  be  much  better 
equipped.  Furthermore,  at  the  border  we  shall  be 
joined  by  a  Russian  contingent  which  is  traveling 
under  military  escort.  And  here,  too,  they  think 
of  putting  a  military  aspect  on  the  affair.  As  to  the 
fever — that  doesn't  scare  me — it  can't  do  me  any 
harm.  As  a  young  man  I  spent  a  number  of  par- 
ticularly dangerous  Summer  nights  in  the  thermae 
of  Caracalla — you  know,  of  course,  what  boggy 
ground  that  is — and  remained  well. 

JULIAN 

But  that  doesn't  prove  anything. 

SALA 

Oh  yes,  a  little.  There  I  came  across  a  Roman  girl 
whose  home  was  right  by  the  Appian  Way.  She 
cauffht  the  fever  and  died  from  it,  .  .  .  To  be  sure, 
I  am  not  as  young  as  I  was  then,  but  so  far  I  have 
been  perfectly  well. 


46  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

JULIAN    (li'ho  has  already  smoked  several  cigarettes, 
offers  one  to  Sala)     Don't  you  smoke? 

SALA 

Thanks.  Really,  I  shouldn't.  Only  yesterday  Dr. 
Reumann  told  me  I  mustn't.  .  .  .  Nothing  particu- 
lar— my  heart  is  a  little  restless,  that's  all.  Well,  a 
single  one  won't  do  any  harm,  I  suppose. 

VALET  (enters) 

Miss  Herms,  sir.  She's  asking  whether  she  can  see 
you. 

JULIAN 

Certainly.     Ask  her  to  come  in. 

VALET  (goes  out) 

IRENE  HERMS  (enters.  She  is  about  forty-three,  but 
doesn't  look  it.  Her  dress  is  simple  and  in  perfect 
taste.  Her  movements  are  vivacioiis,  and  at  times 
almost  youthful  in  their  swiftness.  Her  hair  is 
deeply  blonde  in  color  and  very  heavy.  Her  eyes 
are  merry,  good-humored  most  of  the  time,  and 
easily  filled  with  tears.  She  comes  in  xvith  a  smile 
and  nods  i/n  a  friendly  manner  to  Sala.  To  Julian, 
who  has  gone  to  meet  her,  she  holds  out  her  hand 
with  an  expression  on  her  face  that  is  almost  happy) 
Good  evening.  Well.''  (She  has  the  habit  of  pro- 
nouncing that  "well"  in  a  tone  of  sympathetic  in- 
quiry) So  I  did  right  after  all  in  keeping  my  pa- 
tience a  couple  of  days  more.  Here  I've  got  3^ou 
back  now.  (To  Sala)  Can  you  guess  the  length  of 
time  we  haven't  seen  each  other.? 

JULIAN 

More  than  three  years. 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  47 

IRENE  (nods  assent  and  permits  him  at  last  to  with- 
draw his  hand  from  hers)  In  all  our  lives  that  has 
never  happened  before.  And  jour  last  letter  is  al- 
ready two  months  old.  I  call  it  "letter"  just  to  save 
my  face.  But  it  was  only  a  view-card.  Where  in 
the  world  have  you  been  anyhow? 

JULIAN 

Sit  down,  won't  you?  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
Won't  you  take  off  your  hat?  You'll  stay  a  while, 
I  hope? 

IRENE 

Of  course. — And  the  way  you  look!  {To  Sala) 
Fine,  don't  you  think?  I've  always  known  that  a 
gray  beard  would  make  him  look  awfully  interesting. 

SALA  {to  Julian) 

Now  you'll  have  nothing  but  pleasantries  to  listen 
to.     Unfortunately  I  shall  have  to  be  moving. 

IRENE 

You're  not  leaving  on  my  account,  I  hope? 

SALA 

How  can  you  imagine  such  a  thing,  Miss  Herms? 

IRENE 

I  suppose  you  are  bound  for  the  Wegrats'? — What 
do  you  think  of  it,  Julian?  Isn't  it  dreadful?  {To 
Sala)     Please  give  them  my  regards. 

SALA 

I'm  not  going  there  now.     I'm  going  home. 

IRENE 

Home?  And  you  say  that  in  such  a  matter-of-fact 
way?  I  understand  you  arc  now  living  in  a  perfect 
palace. 


48  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  n 

SALA 

No,  anything  but  that.  A  modest  country  house.  It 
would  give  me  special  pleasure,  Miss  Herms,  if  some- 
time you  would  make  sure  of  it  in  person.  My  gar- 
den is  really  pretty. 

IRENE 

Have  you  fruit  trees,  too,  and  vegetables? 

SALA 

In  this  respect  I  can  only  offer  you  a  stray  cabbage 
and  a  wild  cherry  tree. 

IRENE 

Well,  if  my  time  permit,  I  shall  make  a  point  of 
coming  out  there  to  have  a  look  at  your  villa. 

JULIAN 

Must  you  leave  again  so  soon? 

IRENE 

Certainly.  I  have  to  get  home  again.  Only  this 
morning  I  had  a  letter  from  my  little  nephew — and 
he's  longing  for  me.  A  little  rascal  of  five,  and  he, 
too,  is  longing  already.    What  do  you  think  of  that? 

SALA 

And  you  are  also  longing  to  get  back,  I  suppose? 

IRENE 

It  isn't  that.  But  I'm  beginning  to  get  accustomed 
to  Vienna  again.  As  I'm  going  about  the  streets 
here,  I  run  across  memories  at  every  corner. — Can 
you  guess  where  I  was  yesterday,  Julian?  In  the 
rooms  where  I  used  to  live  as  a  child.  It  wasn't  easy 
by  any  means,  as  a  lot  of  strangers  are  living  there 
now.     But  I  got  into  the  rooms  just  the  same. 

SALA  {zvith  amicable  irony) 

How  did  you  manage  it,  Miss  Herms? 


ACT  n]  THE  LONELY  WAY  49 

IRENE 

I  sneaked  in  under  a  pretext.  I  pretended  to  believe 
that  there  was  a  room  to  be  let — for  a  single  elderly 
lady.  But  at  last  I  fell  to  weeping  so  that  I  could 
see  the  people  thought  me  out  of  my  mind.  And 
then  I  told  them  the  true  reason  for  my  coming 
there.  A  clerk  in  the  post-office  is  living  there  now 
with  his  wife  and  two  children.  One  of  these  was 
such  a  nice  little  chap.  He  was  playing  railroad 
with  an  engine  that  could  be  wound  up,  and  that  ran 
over  one  of  my  feet  all  the  time.  .  .  .  But  I  can 
see  that  all  this  doesn't  interest  you  very  much,  Mr. 
von  Sala. 

SALA 

How  can  you  interrupt  yourself  like  that.  Miss 
Herms,  just  when  it  is  most  exciting.''  I  should  have 
loved  to  hear  more  about  it.  But  now  I  must  really 
go,  unfortunately.  Good-by,  Julian. — Then,  Miss 
Herms,  I  may  count  on  a  visit  from  you.  {He  goes 
out) 

IRENE 

Thank  God ! 

JULIAN  {smiling) 

Do  3'ou  still  have  the  same  antipathy  for  him? 

IRENE 

Antipathy? — I  hate  him!  Nothing  but  your  in- 
credible kindness  of  heart  would  let  him  come  near 
you.    For  you  have  no  worse  enemy. 

JUUAN 

Where  did  you  get  that  idea? 

IRENE 

My  instinct  tells  me — you  can  feel  such  things. 


50  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

JULIAN 

I  fear,  however,  that  even  now  you  cannot  judge 
him  quite  objectively. 

IREKE 

Why  not? 

JULIAN 

You  can't  forgive  him  that  you  failed  in  one  of  his 
plaj'^s  ten  years  ago. 

IRENE 

Unfortunately  it's  already  twelve  years  ago.  And  it 
wasn't  my  fault.  I'or  my  opinion  in  regard  to  his 
so-called  poetry  is,  that  it's  nonsense.  And  I  am 
not  the  only  one  who  thinks  so,  as  you  know.  But 
you  don't  know  him,  of  course.  To  appreciate  that 
gentleman  in  all  his  glory,  you  must  have  enjoyed 
him  at  a  rehearsal.  (Imitating  Sola)  Oh,  madam, 
that's  verse — it's  verse,  dear  madam.  .  .  .  Only 
when  you  have  heard  that  kind  of  thing  from  him 
can  you  understand  how  limitless  his  arrogance  is. 
.  .  .  And  everybody  knows,  by  the  way,  that  he 
killed  his  wife. 
JULIAN  {amused) 

But,  girl,  who  in  the  world  put  such  horrible  ideas 
into  your  head.f^ 

IRENE 

Oh,  people  don't  die  willy-nilly  like  that,  at  twenty- 
five.   .  .  . 

JULIAN 

I  hope,  Irene,  that  you  don't  talk  like  this  to  other 
people  ? 

IRENE 

What  would  be   the   use?      Everyone  knows   it  but 
you.     And  I  for  my  part  have  no  reason  to  spare 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  51 

Mr.  von  Sala,  who  for  twenty  years  has  pursued  me 
with  his  jeers. 
Julian 

And  yet  you  are  going  to  call  on  him? 

IKENE 

Of  course.  Beautiful  villas  interest  me  very  much. 
And  they  tell  me  his  is  ravishing.  If  you  were  only 
to  see  people  who  .   .  . 

JULIAN 

Hadn't  killed  anybody  .   .   . 

IRENE 

Really,  we  show  him  too  much  honor  in  talking  so 
long  about  him.  That  ends  it. — Well,  Julian  ?  How 
goes  it.?  Why  haven't  you  written  me  oftener.'^  Is 
it  possible  you  didn't  dare.? 

JULIAN 

Dare  .  .  .   ? 

IRENE 

Were  you  forbidden,  I  mean.? 

JULIAN 

I  see. — Nobody  can  forbid  me  anything. 

IRENE 

Honestly.?     You  live  all  by  yourself.? 

JULIAN 

Yes. 

IRENE 

I'm  delighted.  I  can't  help  it,  Julian,  but  I  am  de- 
lighted. Although  it's  sheer  nonsense.  This  day, 
or  the  next,  there'll  be  something  new  going  on. 

JULIAN 

Those  days  are  past. 

IRENE 

If  it  were  only  true! — Can  I  have  a  cup  of  tea.? 


52  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  n 

JULIAN 

Certainly.     The  samovar  is  right  there. 

IKENE 

Where? — Oh,  over  there.  And  the  tea? — Oh,  I 
know!  {She  opens  a  small  cupboard  and  brmgs  out 
•what  she  needs;  durmg  the  next  few  minutes  she  is 
busy  preparing  the  tea) 

JULIAN 

So  you  are  really  going  to  stay  here  only  a  couple 
of  days  more? 

IKENE 

Of  course.  I  have  done  all  my  ordering.  You  un- 
derstand, in  my  sister's  house  out  there  one  doesn't 
need  to  dress  up. 

JULIAN 

Tell  me  about  it.    How  do  you  like  it  out  there? 

IRENE 

Sj^lendidly.  Oh,  it's  bliss  merely  to  hear  nothing 
more  about  the  theater. 

JULIAN 

And  yet  you'll  return  to  it  sometime. 

IRENE 

That's  where  you  are  completely  mistaken.  Why 
should  I?  You  must  remember  that  I  have  now 
reached  the  goal  of  all  my  desires :  fresh  air,  and 
woods  right  by ;  horseback  riding  across  meadows 
and  fields ;  early  morning  seated  in  the  big  park, 
dressed  in  my  kimono,  and  nobody  daring  to  in- 
trude. To  put  it  plainly :  no  people,  no  manager, 
no  public,  no  colleagues,  no  playwrights — though, 
of  course,  all  are  not  as  arrogant  as  your  precious 
Sala. — Well,  all  this  I  have  attained  at  last.  I  live 
in  the  country.     I  have  a  country  house — almost  a 


ACT  n]  THE  LONELY  WAY  63 

little  palace,  you  might  say.  I  have  a  park,  and  a 
horse,  and  a  kimono — to  use  as  much  as  I  please. 
It  isn't  all  mine,  I  admit — except  the  kimono,  of 
course — but  what  does  that  matter?  In  the  bargain, 
I  live  with  the  best  people  one  could  hope  to  find  in 
this  world.  For  my  brotlicr-in-law  is,  if  possible,  a 
finer  fellow  than  Lora  herself  even. 

JULIAN 

Wasn't  he  rather  nuiking  up  to  you  once.f* 

IRENE 

I  should  say  he  was  !  He  wanted  to  marry  me  at 
any  cost.  Of  course ! — It  was  always  in  me  that  they 
were  at  first — I  mean  that  they  always  have  been  in 
love  with  mc.  But  as  a  rule  the  clever  ones  have  gone 
over  to  Lora.  In  fact,  I  have  always  felt  a  little 
distrustful  toward  you  because  you  never  fell  in 
love  with  Lora.  And  how  much  she  is  ahead  of  me — 
well,  you  know,  and  it's  no  use  talking  of  it.  Wiiut 
all  don't  I  owe  to  Lora !  ...  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
her  .  .  .  ! — Well,  it's  with  them  I  have  been  living 
the  last  half  year. 

JULIAN 

The  question  is  onl}'  how  long  you  are  going  to  stand 
it. 

IRENE 

How  long  .  .  .  ?  But,  Julian,  I  must  ask  you  what 
there  could  be  to  make  me  leave  such  a  paradise 
and  return  to  the  morass  where  1  (in  a  lowered 
voice)  spent  twenty-five  years  of  my  life.  What 
could  I  possibly  expect  out  of  the  theater  anyhow .-* 
I  am  not  made  for  elderly  parts.  The  heroic  mother, 
the  shrewish  dame  and  the  funny  old  woman  are 
equally  little  to  my  liking.     I  intend  to  die  as  "the 


54  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 


young  lady  from  the  castle" — as  an  old  maid,  you 
might  say — and  if  everything  goes  right,  I  shall  ap- 
pear to  the  grandchildren  of  my  sister  some  hundred 
years  from  now  as  the  Lady  in  White.  In  a  word,  I 
have  the  finest  kind  of  a  life  ahead  of  me. — Why  are 
you  laughing.'' 

JULIAN 

It  pleases  me  to  see  you  so  jolly  again — so  youthful. 

lEENE 

It's  the  country  air,  Julian.  You  should  try  it  your- 
self for  a  good  long  while.  It's  glorious!  In  fact, 
I  think  I  have  missed  my  true  calling.  I'm  sure  the 
good  Lord  meant  me  for  a  milkmaid  or  farm  girl  of 
some  kind.  Or  perhaps  for  a  young  shepherd.  I 
have  always  looked  particularly  well  in  pants. — 
There  now.  Do  you  want  me  to  pour  a  cup  for  you 
at  once.?  (She  pours  the  tea)  Have  you  nothing  to 
go  with  it.'* 

JULIAN 

I  think  there  must  still  be  a  few  crackers  left  in  my 
bag.  {He  takes  a  small  package  out  of  his  traveling 
bag) 

IRENE 

Thanks.     That's  fine. 

JULIAN 

This  is  quite  a  new  fancy  of  yours,  however. 

IRENE 

Crackers  .  .  .   ? 

JULIAN 

No,  nature. 

IRENE 

How  can  you  say  so?     I  have  always  had  a  bound- 
less love  for  nature.     Don't  you  recall  the  excur- 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  55 

sions  we  used  to  make?  Don't  jou  remember  how 
once  we  fell  asleep  in  the  woods  on  a  hot  Summer 
afternoon?  And  don't  you  ever  think  of  that  shrine 
of  the  Holy  Virgin,  on  the  hill  where  we  were  caught 
by  the  storm?  .  .  .  Oh,  mercy!  Nature  is  no  silly 
illusion.  And  still  later — when  I  struck  the  bad  days 
and  wanted  to  kill  myself  for  your  sake,  fool  that  I 
was  .  .  .  then  nature  simply  proved  my  salvation. 
Indeed,  Julian !  I  could  still  show  you  the  place 
where  I  threw  myself  on  the  grass  and  wept.  You 
have  to  walk  ten  minutes  from  the  station,  through 
an  avenue  of  acacias,  and  then  on  to  the  brook.  Yes, 
I  threw  myself  on  the  grass  and  wept  and  wailed.  It 
was  one  of  those  days,  you  know,  when  you  had  again 
sent  me  packing  from  3^our  door.  Well,  and  then, 
when  I  had  been  lying  half  an  hour  in  the  grass,  and 
had  wept  my  fill,  then  I  got  up  again — and  began  to 
scamper  all  over  the  meadow.  Just  like  a  kid,  all  by 
myself.  Then  I  wiped  my  eyes  and  felt  quite  right 
again.  (Pause)  Of  course,  next  morning  I  was  at 
your  door  again,  setting  up  a  howl,  and  then  the 
story  began  all  over  again. 
[/f  is  growing  dark. 

JULIAN 

Why  do  you  still  think  of  all  that? 

IRENE 

But  you  do  it,  too.  And  who  has  proved  the  more 
stupid  of  us  two  in  the  end?  Who?  Ask  yourself, 
on  your  conscience.  Who?  .  .  .  Have  you  been 
more  happy  with  anybody  else  than  with  me?  Has 
anybody  else  clung  to  you  as  I  did?  Has  anybody 
else  been  so  fond  of  you?  .  .  .  No,  I  am  sure.  And 
as  to  that  foolish  affair  into  which  I  stumbled  dur- 


56  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 


ing  my  engagement  abroad — you  might  just  as  well 
have  overlooked  it.  Really,  there  isn't  as  much  to 
that  kind  of  thing  as  you  men  want  to  make  out — 
when  it  happens  to  one  of  us,  that  is  to  say.  (Both 
drink  of  their  tea) 

JULIAN 

Should  I  get  some  light? 

IRENE 

It's  quite  cosy  in  the  twilight  like  this. 

JULIAN 

"Not  much  to  it,"  you  say.  Terhaps  you  are  right. 
But  when  it  happens  to  anybody,  he  gets  pretty  mad 
as  a  rule.  And  if  we  had  made  up  again — it  would 
never  have  been  as  before.  It's  better  as  it  is.  When 
the  worst  was  over,  we  became  good  friends  once 
more,  and  so  we  have  been  ever  since.  And  that  is 
a  pretty  fine  thing,  too. 

IRENE 

Yes.  And  nowadays  I'm  quite  satisfied.  But  at  that 
time  .  .  .  !  Oh,  mercy,  what  a  time  that  was !  But 
you  don't  know  anything  about  it,  of  course.  It  was 
afterward  I  began  really  to  love  you — after  I  had 
lost  you  through  my  own  thoughtlessness.  It  was 
only  then  I  learned  how  to  be  faithful  in  the  true 
sense.  For  anything  that  has  happened  to  me  since 
then.  .  .  .  But  it's  asking  too  much  that  a  man 
should  understand  that  kind  of  thing. 

JULIAN 

I  understand  quite  well,  Irene.    You  may  be  sure. 

IRENE 

And  besides  I  want  to  tell  you  something:  it  was 
nothing  but  a  well-deserved  punishment  for  both  of 
us. 


ACT  II ]  THE  LONELY  WAY  57 

JULIAN 

For  both  of  us? 

IRENE 

Yes,  that's  what  I  have  figured  out  long  ago.  A 
well-deserved  punishment. 

JULIAN 

For  both  of  us? 

IKENE 

Yes,  for  you,  too. 

JULIAN 

But  what  do  you  mean  b}'  that? 

lEENE 

We  had  deserved  no  better. 

JULIAN 

We  .  .   .    ?     In  what  way? 
IKENE  {very  seriously) 

You  are  so  very  clever  otherwise,  Julian.  Now  what 
do  you  say — do  you  think  it  could  have  happened  as 
it  did — do  you  think  I  could  have  made  a  mistake 
like  that— if  we — had  had  a  child?  Ask  yourself  on 
your  conscience,  Julian — do  you  believe  it?  I  don't, 
and  you  don't  cither.  Everytliing  would  have  hap- 
pened in  a  different  way.  Everything.  We  had 
stayed  together  then.  We  had  had  more  children. 
We  had  married.  We  might  be  living  together  now. 
I  shouldn't  have  become  an  old-maidish  "young  lady 
from  the  castle,"  and  you  wouldn't  have  become  .   .   . 

JULIAN 

An  old  bachelor. 

IRENE 

Well,  if  you  say  it  yourself.  And  the  main  thing  is 
this:    we  had  a*  child.     I  had  a  child.     (Pause) 


58  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

JULIAN   {walking  back  and  fo7'th) 

What's  the  use,  Irene?  Why  do  you  begin  to  talk 
of  all  those  forgotten  things  again  .   .   .    ? 

IRENE 

Forgotten? 

JULIAN 

.  .  .  Things  gone  by. 

IRENE 

Yes,  they  are  bygone,  of  course.  But  out  there  in 
the  country  you  have  plenty  of  time.  All  sorts  of 
things  keep  passing  through  your  head.  And  espe- 
cially when  you  see  other  people's  children — Lora  has 
two  boys,  you  know — then  you  get  all  sorts  of  no- 
tions.    It  almost  amounted  to  a  vision  not  long  ago. 

JULIAN 

What? 

IRENE 

It  was  toward  evening,  and  I  had  walked  across  the 
fields.  I  do  it  quite  often,  all  by  myself.  Far  and 
wide  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen.  And  the  village 
down  below  was  quite  deserted,  too.  And  I  walked 
on  and  on,  always  in  direction  of  the  woods.  And 
suddenly  I  was  no  longer  alone.  You  were  with 
me.  And  between  us  was  the  child.  We  were  hold- 
ing it  by  the  hands — our  little  child.  (Angrily,  to 
keep  herself  from  crying)  It's  too  silly  for  any- 
thing! I  know,  of  course,  that  our  child  would  be  a 
gawky  youngster  of  twenty-three  by  now — that  it 
might  have  turned  into  a  scamp  or  a  good-for-noth- 
ing girl.  Or  that  it  might  be  dead  already.  Or  that 
it  had  drifted  out  into  the  wide  world,  so  that  we 
had  notliing  left  of  it — oh,  yes,  yes.  .  .  .  But  we 
should  have  had  it  once,   for  all  that — once   there 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  59 

would  have  been  a  little   child   that   seemed   rather 
fond  of  us.     And  .  .  .   (She  is  unable  to  go  on;  si- 
lence follows) 
JULIAN  (softly) 

You  shouldn't  talk  yourself  into  such  a  state,  Irene. 

IRENE 

I  am  not  talking  myself  into  anything. 

JULIAN 

Don't  brood.  Accept  things  as  they  are.  There 
have  been  other  things  in  your  life — better  things, 
perhaps.  Your  life  has  been  much  richer  than  that 
of  a  mere  mother  could  ever  have  been.  .  .  .  You 
have  been  an  artist. 
IRENE  (as  if  to  herself) 

I  don't  care  that  much  for  it. 

JULIAN 

A  great,  famous  one — that  means  something  after 
all.  And  your  life  has  brought  you  many  other  ex- 
quisite experiences — since  the  one  with  me.  I  am 
sure  of  it. 

IRENE 

What  have  I  got  left  of  it?  Wliat  does  it  amount 
to.''  A  woman  who  has  no  child  has  never  been  a 
woman.  But  a  woman  who  once  might  have  had  one 
— who  should  have  had  one,  and  who — (icith  a 
glance  at  him) — has  never  become  a  mother,  she  is 
nothing  but — oh!  But  that's  what  a  man  cannot 
understand !  It  is  what  not  one  of  them  can  under- 
stand! In  this  respect  the  very  best  one  of  the  lot 
will  always  remain  something  of  a  cad.  Is  there  one 
of  you  who  knows  how  many  of  his  own  offspring 
have  been  set  adrift  in  the  world?  I  know  at  least 
that  there  are  none  of  mine.     Can  you  say  as  much? 


60  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

And  if  I  did  know  .   .   . 

IBENE 

How?  Have  you  got  one  really? — Oh,  speak, 
please!  You  can  tell  me,  Julian,  can't  you?  Where 
is  it?     How  old  is  it?     A  boy?    Or  a  girl? 

JULIAN 

Don't  question  me.  .  ,  .  Even  if  I  had  a  child,  it 
wouldn't  belong  to  you  anyhow. 

IRENE 

He  has  a  child!  He  has  a  child!  (Pause)  Why  do 
you  permit  it  to  be  drifting  around  in  the  world 
then? 

JULIAN 

You  yourself  have  given  the  explanation:  in  this  re- 
spect the  very  best  of  us  remains  always  something 
of  a  cad.     And  I  am  not  the  best  one  at  that. 

IRENE 

Why  don't  you  go  and  get  it? 

JULIAN 

How  could  it  be  any  of  my  concern?  How  could  I 
dare  to  make  it  my  concern?  Oh,  that's  enough. 
.   .  .   (Pause)     Do  you  want  another  cup  of  tea? 

IRENE 

No,  thanks.     No  more  now.     (Pause;  it  is  growing 
darker)     He  has  a  child,  and  I  have  never  known  it! 
(Protracted  silence) 
VALET  (enters) 

JULIAN 

What  is  it? 

VALET 

Lieutenant  Wegrat   asks  if  you   are  at  home,   sir? 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  61 

JULIAN 

Certainly.    Ask  him  in. 
VALET  {goes  out  after  having  turned  on  the  light) 

IRENE 

Young    Wegrat? — I    thought    ho    had    already    left 
again. — The  poor  chaj) !   He  seemed  utterly  stunned. 

JULIAN 

I  can  imagine. 

IRENE 

You  visited  him  at  Salzburg? 


JULIAN 

Yes,  I  happened  to  be  thert-  a  couple  of  days  last 
August. 

FELEX  (enters,  dressed  as  a  civilian) 

Good  evening. — Good  evening,  Miss  Herms. 

IRENE 

Good  evening.  Lieutenant. 

JULIAN 

My  dear  Felix — I  was  going  to  call  on  you — this 
very  evening.  It's  extremely  nice  of  you  to  take  the 
trouble. 

FELIX 

I  have  to  be  off  again  tiie  day  after  to-morrow,  and 
so  I  wasn't  sure  whether  I  could  Hnd  any  chance  at 
all  to  see  you. 

JULIAN 

Won't  you  take  off  your  coat? — Think  of  it,  I  didn't 
have   the  slightest  idea.   ...   It  was  Sala  who  told 
me — less  than  an  hour  ago. 
[Irene  is  looJang  from  one  to  the  other. 


62  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

FELIX 

We  didn't  dream  of  this  when  we  took  that  walk  in 
the  Mirabell  Gardens  ^  last  summer. 

JULIAN 

Was  it  very  sudden? 

FELIX 

Yes.  And  I,  who  couldn't  be  with  her.  .  .  .  Late 
that  evening  I  had  to  leave,  and  she  died  during  the 
night. 

IKENE 

Say  rather  that  she  didn't  wake  up  again  next  morn- 
ing. 

FELIX 

We  owe  a  lot  of  thanks  to  you,  Miss  Herms. 

IRENE 

Oh,  please  .   .   .    ! 

FELIX 

It  always  gave  my  mother  so  much  pleasure  to  have 
you  with  her,  chatting,  or  playing  the  piano  to  her. 

lEENE 

Oh,  don't  mention  my  playing  .   .   .    ! 
[A  clock  strikes. 

IRENE 

Is  it  that  late.'*     Then  I  have  to  go. 

JULIAN 

What's  the  hurry.  Miss  Herms.'' 

IRENE 

I'm  going  to  the  opera.  I  have  to  make  good  use 
of  the  few  days  I  shall  still  be  here. 

*The  palace  of  Mirabell  is  one  of  the  sights  of  Salzburg,  the 
city  near  the  Bavarian  border,  where  Felix's  regiment  was  sta- 
tioned. It  is  now  used  as  a  museum.  The  gardens  adjoining  it 
are  of  the  formal  type  so  dear  to,  and  so  characteristic  of,  the 
eighteenth  century. 


I 


ACT  II  ]  THE  LONELY  WAY  63 

FELIX 

Shall  we  see  you  at  our  house  again,  Miss  Herms? 

IRENE 

Certainly. — You'll  have  to  leave  before  me,  won*t 
you? 

FELIX 

Yes,  my  furlough  will  be  up   .   .   . 

IRENE  (as  if  en  passant) 

How  long  have  you  been  an  officer  anyhow,  Felix? 

FELIX 

For  three  years  really — but  I  didn't  apply  for  a 
commission  until  this  year — a  little  too  late,  per- 
haps. 

IRENE 

Too  late?    Why.'* — How  old  are  you,  Felix? 

FELIX 

Twenty-three. 

IRENE 

Oh!  (Pause)  But  when  I  saw  3^ou  four  years  ago 
as  a  volunteer,  I  thought  at  once  you  would  stay  in 
the  service. — Do  you  remember,  Julian,  I  told  you 
so  at  the  time? 

JULIAN 

X  tro*     •     •     • 

FELIX 

That  must  have  been  in  the  summer,  the  last  time 
you  called  on  us. 

IRENE 

I  think  so.   .   .   . 


FELIX 

Many  things  have  changed  since  then. 


64  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  n 


IRENE 

Indeed!  Those  were  still  happy  days. — Don't  you 
think  so,  Julian?  For  we  haven't  met  either  since 
we  spent  those  beautiful  summer  evenings  in  the  gar- 
den of  the  Wegrats. 

JULIAN  {nods  assent) 

IRENE  (stands  again  looking  now  at  Julian  and  now  at 
Felix;  brief  pause)  Oh,  but  now  it's  high  time  for 
me  to  be  gone. — Good-by.  Remember  me  at  home, 
Lieutenant. — Good-by,  Julian.  {She  goes  out,  ac- 
companied to  the  door  hy  Julian) 

FEMX 

Haven't  you  made  some  changes  here? 

JULIAN 

Not  to  my  knowledge.  And  how  could  you  know 
anyhow?  You  have  only  been  here  two  or  three 
times. 

FELIX 

Yes.  But  the  last  time  at  one  of  the  most  important 
moments  in  my  life.  I  came  here  to  get  your  ad- 
vice. 

JULIAN 

Well,  everything  has  turned  out  in  accordance  with 
your  wish.  Even  your  father  has  resigned  himself 
to  it. 

FELIX 

Yes,  he  has  resigned  himself.  Of  course,  he  would 
have  preferred  to  see  me  continue  my  technical  stud- 
ies. But  now  he  has  seen  that  it  Is  quite  possible 
to  lead  a  sensible  life  in  uniform  too — without  any 
debts  or  duels.  In  fact,  my  life  is  almost  too  smooth. 
However,  there  is  at  least  more  to  anticipate  for  one 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  65 

of  us  than  for  most  people.  And  that's  always  some- 
thing. 

JULIAN 

And  how  are  things  at  home? 

FELIX 

At  home.  .  .  .  Really,  it's  almost  as  if  that  word 
had  lost  its  meaning. 

JULIAN 

Has  your  father  resumed  his  duties  again.'' 

FELIX 

Of  course.  Two  days  later  he  was  back  in  his  studio. 
He  is  wonderful.  But  I  can't  quite  understand  It. 
.  .  .  Am  I  disturbing  you,  ]\Ir.  Flclitner.'*  You 
were  putting  3'our  papers  in  order,  I  think. 

JULIAN 

Oh,  there's  no  hurry  about  that.  They're  easily  put 
in  order.     IMost  of  them  I  burn. 

FELIX 

Why? 

JULIAN 

It's  more  sensible,  don't  you  tlu'nk,  to  destroy  things 
one  hardly  cares  to  look  at  any  more? 

FELIX 

But  doesn't  it  make  you  rather  sad  to  clean  out  your 
past  like  that? 

JULIAN 

Sad?  .  .  .  No,  it's  entirely  too  natural  a  process 
for  that. 

FELIX 

I  can't  see  it  that  wa}'.  Look  lierc.  To  burn  a  let- 
ter, or  a  picture,  or  something  of  that  kind,  imme- 
diately after  you  have  got  it — that  seems  quite  natu- 
ral to  me.     But  something  a.t  all  worthy  of  being 


66  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

kept  as  a  remembrance  of  some  poignant  joy  or 
equally  poignant  sorrow  would  seem  incapable  of 
ever  losing  its  significance  again.  And  especially  in 
the  case  of  a  life  like  yours,  that  has  been  so  rich 
and  so  active.  ...  It  would  seem  to  me  that  at 
times  you  must  feel  something  like — awe  in  the  face 
of  your  own  past. 

JULIAN 

Where  do  you  get  such  thoughts — you,  who  are  so 
young? 

FELIX 

They  just  came  into  my  head  this  minute. 

JULIAN 

You  are  not  so  very  much  mistaken,  perhaps.  But 
there  is  something  else  besides,  that  makes  me  want 
to  clean  house.  I  am  about  to  become  homeless,  so 
to  speak. 

FELIX 

Why.? 

JULIAN 

I'm  giving  up  my  rooms  here,  and  don't  know  yet 
what  my  next  step  will  be.  And  so  I  think  it's  more 
pleasant  to  let  these  things  come  to  a  decent  end 
rather  than  to  put  them  in  a  box  and  leave  them  to 
molder  away  in  a  cellar, 

FELIX 

But  don't  you  feel  sorry  about  a  lot  of  it? 

JULIAN 

Oh,  I  don't  know. 

FELIX 

And  then  you  must  have  mementoes  that  mean  some- 
thing to  other  people  besides  yourself.     Sketches  of 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  67 

all  kinds,  for  instance,  which  I  think  you  have  saved 
to  some  extent. 

JULTAN 

Are  you  thinking  of  tliose  little  things  I  showed 
you  in  Salzburg? 

FELIX 

Yes,  of  tliose  too,  of  course. 

JULIAN 

They  are  still  wrapped  up.  Would  you  like  to  have 
them  .'* 

FELIX 

Indeed,  I  should  feel  very  thankful.  They  seemed 
to  have  a  particular  charm  for  me.  (Pause)  But 
there's  sonietlilng  else  I  wanted  to  ask  of  you.  A 
great  favor.     If  you  will  let  me  .   .  . 

JULIAN 

Tell  me,  please. 

FELIX 

I  thought  you  might  still  have  left  a  picture  of  my 
mother  as  a  young  girl.  A  small  picture  in  water 
colors  painted  by  yourself. 

JULIAN 

Yes,  I  did  paint  such  a  picture. 

FELIX 

And  you  have  still  got  it.? 

JULIAN 

I  guess  it  can  be  found. 

FELIX 

I  should  like  to  see  it. 

JULIAN 

Did  your  mother  remember  tliis  picture   .   .   .    ? 


68  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

FELIX 

Yes,  she  mentioned  it  to  me  the  last  evening  I  ever 
saw  her — the  evening  before  she  died.  At  the  time  I 
didn't  imagine,  of  course,  that  the  end  was  so  near — 
and  I  don't  think  she  could  guess  it  either.  To-day 
it  seems  rather  peculiar  to  me  that,  on  that  very 
evening,  she  had  to  talk  so  much  of  days  long  gone 
by. 

JULIAN 

And  of  this  little  picture,  too.'' 

FELIX 

It's  a  very  good  one,  I  understand. 

JULIAN  {as  if  trying  to  remember) 

Where  did  I  put  it.^*  Wait  now.  .  .  .  {He  goes  to 
a  hook  case,  the  lower  part  of  which  has  solid  doors; 
these  he  opens,  disclosing  several  shelves  piled  with 
portfolios)  I  painted  it  in  the  country — in  the  little 
house  where  your  grandparents  used  to  live. 

FELIX 

I  know. 

JULIAN 

You  can  hardly  recall  the  old  people,  I  suppose? 

FELIX 

Very  vaguely.  They  were  quite  humble  people,  were 
they  not? 

JULIAN 

Yes.     {He  has  taken  a  big  portfolio  from  one  of  the 
shelves)     It  ought  to  be  in  this  portfolio.     {He  puts 
it  on  the  writing  desk  and  opens  it;    then  he  sits 
down  in  front  of  it) 
FELIX  {stands  behind  him,  looking  over  his  shoulder) 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  69 

JULIAN 

Here  is  the  house  in  which  they  lived — your  grand- 
parents and  your  mother.  {He  goes  through  the 
sketches,  one  by  one)  And  here  is  a  view  of  the  val- 
ley seen  from  the  cemetery, 

FKLIX 

In  Sunnner  .   .   . 

JULIAN 

Yes. — And  here  is  the  little  inn  at  which  your  father 

and  I  used  to  stop.   .   .   .   And  here  .   .   .   {He  looks 

in  silence  at  the  sketch;  both  remain  silent  for  a  long 

while) 
FELIX  (picking  up  the  sketch) 

How  old  was  my  mother  at  the  time? 
JULIAN  (who  remains  seated) 

Eighteen. 
FELIX  (going  a,  few  steps  away  and  leaning  against  the 

bookcase  in  order  to  get  better  light  on  the  picture) 

A  year  before  she  was  married,  then. 

JULIAN 

It  was  done  that  very  year.     (Pause) 

FELIX 

What  a  strange  look  that  meets  me  out  of  tliose 
eyes.  .  .  .  There's  a  smile  on  her  li}).s.  .  .  .  It's  al- 
most as  if  she  were  talking  to  me.   .   .   . 

JULIAN 

What  was  it  your  mother  told  you — that  last  even- 
ing.? 

FELIX 

Not  very  much.  But  I  feel  as  if  I  knew  more  than 
she  had  told  me.  What  a  queer  thought  it  is,  that 
as  she  is  now  looking  at  me  out  of  this  picture,  so 
she  must  have  been  looking  at  you  once.     It  seems 


70  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

as  if  there  was  a  certain  timidity  in  that  look.  Some- 
thing like  fear  almost.  ...  In  such  a  way  you  look 
at  people  out  of  another  world,  for  which  you  long, 
and  of  which  you  are  afraid  nevertheless. 

JULIAN 

At  that  time  your  mother  had  rarely  been  outside 
the  village. 

FELIX 

She  must  have  been  different  from  all  other  women 
you  have  met,  wasn't  she? — Why  don't  you  say 
anything?  I  am  not  one  of  those  men  who  cannot 
understand — who  won't  understand  that  their 
mothers  and  sisters  are  women  after  all.  I  can 
easily  understand  that  it  must  have  been  a  danger- 
ous time  for  her — and  for  somebody  else  as  well. 
{Very  simply)  You  must  have  loved  my  mother  very 
much  ? 

JULIAN 

You  have  a  curious  way  of  asking  questions. — Yes, 
I  did  love  her. 

FELIX 

And  those  moments  must  have  been  very  happy  ones, 
when  you  sat  in  that  little  garden  with  its  overgrown 
fence,  holding  this  canvas  on  your  knees,  and  out 
there  on  the  bright  meadow,  among  all  those  red 
and  white  flowers,  stood  this  young  girl  with  anx- 
iously smiling  eyes,  holding  her  straw  hat  in  one 
hand. 

JULIAN 

Your  mother  talked  of  those  moments  that  last  even- 
ing? 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  71 

FELIX 

Yes. — It  is  dilldisli  perhaps,  but  since  then  it  has 
seemed  impossible  to  me  that  any  other  human  being 
could  ever  have  meant  so  much  to  you  as  this  one? 
JULIAN  (more  and  more  deeply  moved,  but  speaking 
ver/j  quietly)  1  shall  not  answer  you. — In  the  end 
I  should  instinctively  be  tempted  to  make  myself  ap- 
pear better  than  I  am.  You  know  very  well  how  I 
have  lived  my  life — tiiat  it  has  not  followed  a  regu- 
lated and  direct  course  like  the  lives  of  most  other 
people.  I  suppose  that  the  gift  of  bestowing  happi- 
ness of  the  kind  that  lasts,  or  of  accepting  it,  has 
never  been  mine. 

FELLX 

That's  what  I  feel.  It  is  what  I  have  always  felt. 
Often  witii  something  like  regret — or  sorrow  almost. 
But  just  people  like  you,  who  are  destined  by  their 
very  nature  to  have  many  and  varied  experiences — 
just  such  peo])le  should,  I  think,  cling  more  faith- 
fully and  more  gratefully  to  memories  of  a  tender, 
peaceful  sort,  like  this — rather  than  to  more  pas- 
sionate and  saddening  memories. — Am  I  not  right.'' 

JULIAN 

Maybe  you  are. 

FELIX 

My  mother  had  never  before  mentioned  this  picture 
to  me.  Isn't  it  strange.?  .  .  .  That  last  night  she 
did  it  for  the  first  time. — We  were  left  alone  on  the 
veranda.  Tiie  rest  had  already  bid  me  good-by. 
.  .  .  And  all  of  a  sudden  she  began  to  talk  about 
those  sunnner  days  of  long,  long  ago.  Her  words 
had  an  undercurrent  of  meanings  which  she  proba- 
bly did  not  realize.     I  believe  that  her  own  3'outh, 


72  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

which  she  had  almost  ceased  to  understand,  was  un- 
consciously taking  mine  into  its  confidence.  It 
moved  me  more  deeply  than  I  can  tell  you. — Much  as 
she  cared  for  me,  she  had  never  before  talked  to  me 
like  that.  And  I  believe  that  she  had  never  been 
quite  so  dear  to  me  as  in  those  last  moments. — And 
when  finally  I  had  to  leave,  I  felt  that  she  had  still 
much  more  to  tell  me. — Now  you'll  understand  why 
I  had  such  a  longing  to  see  this  picture. — I  have 
almost  the  feeling  that  it  might  go  on  talking  to  me 
as  my  mother  would  have  done — if  I  had  only  dared 
to  ask  her  one  more  question ! 

JULIAN 

Ask  it  now.   .   .   .  Do  ask  it,  Felix. 

FELIX  {who  becomes  aware  of  the  emotion  betrayed  in 
the  voice  of  Julian,  looks  up  from  the  picture) 

JULIAN 

I  believe  that  it  can  still  tell  you  a  great  many 
things. 

FELIX 

What  is  the  matter.? 

JULIAN 

Do  you  want  to  keep  that  picture.'' 

FELIX 

Why  .  .  .    ? 

JULIAN 

Well  .  .  .  take  it.  I  don't  give  it  to  you.  As  soon 
as  I  have  settled  down  again,  I  shall  want  it  back. 
But  you  shall  have  a  look  at  it  whenever  you  want. 
And  I  hope  matters  will  be  so  arranged  that  you 
won't  have  far  to  go  either. 


ACT  ii]  THE  LONELY  WAY  73 

FELIX  {with  his  eyes  on  the  picture) 

It  grows  more  alive  ever}'  second.  .  .  .  And  that 
look  was  directed  at  you.  .  .  .  That  look  .  .  .  ? 
Can  it  be  possible  that  I  read  it  right.? 

JULIAN 

Mothers  have  their  adventures,  too,  like  other 
women. 

FELIX 

Yes,  indeed,  I  believe  it  has  nothing  more  to  hide 
from  me. 

[He  puts  dozen  the  picture.  Then  a  long  pause  fol- 
lows.   At  last  Felix  puts  on  his  coat. 

JULIAN 

Are  you  not  going  to  take  it  along? 

FELIX 

Not  just  now.  It  belongs  to  you  much  more  than  I 
could  guess. 

JULIAN 

And  to  you  .  .  . 

FELIX 

No,  I  don't  want  it  until  this  new  thing  has  become 
fully  revealed  to  me.  (He  looks  Julian  frmly  in  the 
eyes)  I  don't  quite  know  where  I  am.  In  reality, 
of  course,  there  has  been  no  change  whatever.  None 
— except  that  I  know  now  what  I  .  .  . 

JULIAN 

Felix ! 

FELIX 

No,  that  was  something  I  could  never  have  guessed. 
(Looks  long  at  Julian  with  an  expression  of  mingled 
tenderness  and  curiosity)     Farewell. 

JULIAN 

Are  you  going.'' 


74  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  ii 

FELIX 

I  need  badly  to  be  by  myself  for  a  while. — Until  to- 
morrow. 

JULIAN 

Yes,  and  no  longer,  Felix.     To-morrow  1  shall  come 
to  your — I'll  call  on  you,  Felix. 

FELIX 

I  shall  be  waiting  for  you.     {He  goes  out) 
JULIAN  {stands  quite  still  for  a  moment;  then  he  goes 
to  the  writing  desk  and  stops  beside  it,  lost  in  con- 
templation of  the  picture) 

CURTAIN 


THE    THIRD    ACT 

A  room  at  the  Wegrats*  adjoining  the  veranda.    The 
outlook  is,  of  course,  determined  hy  the  location. 

JOHANNA  {is  seated  on  a  stool  with  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap) 

SALA  (enters) 

Good  morning,  Johanna. 

JOHANNA  (rises,  goes  to  meet  him,  and  draws  him  close 
to  herself)     Arc  jou  coming  for  the  last  time? 

SALA 

For  the  last  time  ?  What  an  idea !  There  has  not 
been  the  slightest  change  in  our  arrangements.  To- 
day is  the  seventh  of  October,  and  the  ship  will  leave 
Genoa  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  November. 

JOHANNA 

Some  day  you  will  suddenly  have  disappeared.  And 
I  shall  be  standing  by  the  garden  door,  and  nobody 
will  come  to  open  it. 

SALA 

But  that  sort  of  thing  is  not  needed  between  us  two. 

JOHANNA 

No,  indeed — bear  that  in  mind. 

FELIX  (enters) 

Oh,  is  that  you,  Mr.  von  Sala?  (Thcij  shake  hands) 
Well,  how  far  have  you  got  with  your  preparations.'' 


^e  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iii 

SALA 

There  are  hardly  any  needed.  I  shall  pack  my 
trunk,  pull  down  the  shades,  lock  the  doors — and  be 
off  for  the  mysteries  of  far-away.  There  is  some- 
thing I  want  to  ask  you  apropos  of  that,  Felix. 
Would  you  care  to  come  along? 
FELIX  (startled) 

If  I  care.  .  .  .  Are  you  asking  seriously,  Mr.  von 
Sala.'' 

SAIiA 

There  is  just  so  much  seriousness  in  my  question  as 
you  wish  to  put  into  it. 

FELIX 

What  does  it  mean  anyhow?  If  I  want  to  go  along 
to  Asia?  What  use  could  they  have  for  me  in  a  ven- 
ture of  that  kind? 

SAL  A 

Oh,  that's  pretty  plain. 

FELIX 

Is  the  expedition  not  going  to  be  one  of  purely  scien- 
tific character? 

SALA 

Yes,  that's  what  it  is  meant  for,  I  suppose.  But  it 
is  quite  possible  that  various  things  may  happen 
that  would  make  the  presence  of  some  young  men 
like  you  very  desirable. 

FELIX 

Men  like  me  .  .  .    ? 

SALA 

When  Rolston  went  out  there  seven  years  ago,  a  lot 
of  things  happened  which  were  not  provided  for  in 
the  original  program.    And  they  had  to  fight  a  regu- 


ACT  III]  THE  LONELY  WAY  77 

lar  battle,  on  a  small  scale,  in  the  Kara-Kum  dis- 
trict, not  far  from  the  river  Amu-Daria. 

REUMANN  (zvJio  Jitts  entered  while  Sola  was  speaking) 
To  those  who  had  to  stay  behind  forever  the  scale 
of  your  battle  was  probably  large  enough.  {All 
greet  each  other  and  shake  hands  without  letting 
the  conversation  he  interrupted) 

SALA 

In  that  respect  you  are  probably  right.  Doctor. 

FELIX 

Pardon  me,  Mr.  von  Sala,  but  does  this  come  from 
you  alone?  Is  it  just  a  sudden  notion — or  some- 
thing more.-^ 

SALA 

I  have  received  no  direct  request  from  anybody  to 
speak  of  this.  But  after  the  conference  which  took 
place  at  the  Foreign  Department  yesterday,  and 
which  I  attended,  I  feel  entitled  to  add  a  little  more. 
— Oh,  no  secrets  at  all ! — You  have  probably  read, 
Felix,  that  a  member  of  the  General  Staff  as  well  as 
several  artillery  and  engineering  officers  are  being 
sent  with  us  in  what  might  be  termed  a  semi-official 
capacity.  On  account  of  the  latest  news  from  Asia 
— which,  however,  does  not  seem  very  reliable  to  me, 
as  it  has  come  by  way  of  England — it  has  been  de- 
cided to  secure  the  additional  cooperation  of  some 
young  line  officers,  and  all  arrangements  of  this  kind 
must  be  left  to  private  initiative. 

FELIX 

And  there  might  be  a  possibility  for  me  .  .  .   .? 

SALA 

Will  you  permit  me  to  speak  to  Count  Ronsky.? 


78  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iii 

FELIX 

Have  you  already  mentioned  my  name  to  him? 

SALA 

I  have  received  permission  to  ask  whether  you  could 
be  prepared  to  board  the  ship  with  the  rest  at  Genoa 
on  the  twenty-sixth  of  November. 

REUMANN 

Do  you  mean  to  leave  Vienna  as  soon  as  that? 

SAL.A  {sarcastically) 

Yes.  Why  did  you  look  at  me  like  that,  Doctor? 
That  glance  of  yours  was  a  little  indiscreet. 

KEUMANN 

In  what  respect? 

SALA 

It  seemed  to  say :  Yes,  you  can  start,  of  course,  but 
if  you  ever  come  back,  that's  more  than  doubtful. 

REUMANN 

Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  von  Sala,  that  in  the  face  of 
a  venture  like  yours  one  might  well  express  such 
doubts  quite  openly.  But  are  you  at  all  interested 
in  whether  you  get  back  or  not,  Mr.  von  Sala?  I 
don't  suppose  you  belong  to  the  kind  of  people  who 
care  to  put  their  affairs  in  order. 

SALA 

No,  indeed.  Especially  not  as,  in  cases  of  that  kind, 
it  is  generally  the  affairs  of  others  which  give  you 
needless  trouble.  If  I  were  to  be  interested  at  all  in 
my  own  chances,  it  would  be  for  much  more  selfish 
reasons. 

JOHANNA 

What  reasons? 


ACT  III]  THE  LONELY  WAY  79 

SAtA 

I  don't  want  to  be  cheated  out  of  the  consciousness 
that  certain  moments  are  my  final  ones. 

REUMANN 

There  are  not  many  people  who  share  your  attitude 
in  that  respect. 

SALA 

At  any  rate,  Doctor,  you  would  have  to  tell  me  the 
absolute  truth  if  I  ever  asked  you  for  it.  I  hold  that 
one  has  the  right  to  drain  one's  own  life  to  the  last 
drop,  with  all  the  horrors  and  delights  that  may  lie 
hidden  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Just  as  it  is  our  evident 
duty  every  day  to  commit  every  good  deed  and  every 
rascality  lying  witliin  our  capacity.  .  .  .  No,  I 
won't  let  you  rob  me  of  my  death  moments  by  any 
kind  of  hocus-pocus.  It  would  imply  a  small-minded 
attitude,  worthy  neither  of  yourself  nor  of  me. — 
Well,  Felix,  the  twenty-sixth  of  November  then ! 
That's  still  seven  weeks  off.  In  regard  to  any  for- 
malities that  may  be  required,  you  need  have  no 
worry  at  all. 

FELIX 

How  long  a  time  have  I  got  to  make  up  my  mind  ? 

SALA 

There's   no   reason   to   be   precipitate.      When  does 
your  furlough  end? 

FELIX 

To-morrow  night. 

SALA 

Of  course,  j'ou  are  going  to  talk  it  over  with  your 
father? 


80  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  in 

FELIX 

With  my  father.  .  .  ,  Yes,  of  course. — At  any  rate 
I'll  bring  you  the  answer  early  to-morrow  morning, 
Mr.  von  Sala. 

SALA 

Fine.  It  would  please  me  very  much.  But  you  must 
bear  in  mind:  it  will  be  no  picnic.  I  expect  to  see 
you  soon,  then.  Good-by,  Miss  Johanna.  Farewell, 
Doctor. 

\^He  goes  out.     A   brief  pause.     Those  left  behind 
show  signs  of  emotion. 
JOHANNA  {rising) 

I'm  going  to  my  room.  Good-by,  Doctor.  {She  goes 
out) 

BEUMANN 

Have  you  made  up  your  mind,  Felix? 

FELIX 

Almost. 

IlEUMANN 

You'll  come  across  much  that  is  new  to  you. 

FELIX 

And  my  own  self  among  it,  I  hope — which  would  be 
about  time.  .  .  .  {Quoting)  "The  mysteries  of  far- 
away ..."  And  will  it  really  come  true.?  Oh, 
the  thrill  of  it ! 

BEUMANN 

And  yet  you  ask  time  to  consider? 

FELIX 

I  hardly  know  why.  And  yet  .  .  .  The  thought  of 
leaving  people  behind  and  perhaps  never  seeing  them 
again — and  certainly  not  as  they  were  when  you  left 
them;  the  thought,  too,  that  perhaps  your  going 
will  hurt  them  .   .  . 


ACT  III]  THE  LONELY  WAY  81 

REUMANN 

If  nothing  else  makes  jou  hesitate,  then  every  mo- 
ment of  uncertainty  is  wasted.  Nothing  is  more 
sure  to  estrange  you  from  those  dear  to  you  than 
the  knowledge  that  duty  condemns  you  to  stay  near 
them.  You  must  seize  this  unique  opportunity.  You 
must  go  to  see  Genoa,  Asia  Minor,  Thibet,  Bactria. 
.  .  .  Oh,  it  must  be  splendid !  And  my  best  wishes 
will  go  with  you.     {He  gives  his  hand  to  Felix) 

FELIX 

Thank  you.  But  there  will  be  plenty  of  time  for 
wishes  of  that  kind.  Whatever  may  be  decided,  we 
shall  meet  more  than  once  before  I  leave. 

REUMANN 

I  hope  so.     Oh,  of  course ! 

FELIX  (looking  hard  at  him) 

Doctor  ...  it  seems  to  me  there  was  a  final  fare- 
well in  that  pressure  of  your  hand. 

REUMANN  (rsnth  a  smile) 

Is  it  ever  possible  to  tell  whether  you  will  meet 
again  ? 

FELIX 

Tell  me,  Doctor — did  Mr.  von  Sala  interpret  your 
glance  correctly  .f* 

REUMANN 

That  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  case  anj^how. 

FELIX 

Will  he  not  be  able  to  go  with  us.'' 

REUMANN  (zcith  hesitation) 
That's  very  hard  to  predict. 

FELIX 

You  have  never  learned  to  lie,  Doctor. 


82  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  hi 

KEUMANN 

As  the  matter  stands  now,  I  think  you  can  bring  it 
to  a  successful  conclusion  without  further  assist- 
ance. 

FELIX 

Mr.  von  Sala  called  on  you  a  few  days  ago? 

REUMANN 

Yes,  it  was  only  a  while  ago.  (Pause)  Well,  you 
can  see  for  yourself  that  he  is  not  well,  can't  you.'* — 
So  God  be  with  you,  Felix. 

FELIX 

Will  you  continue  to  befriend  this  house  when  I  am 
gone  ? 

KEUMANN 

Why  do  you  ask  questions  like  that,  Felix.'' 

FELIX 

You  don't  mean  to  come  here  again.'' — But  why? 

REUMANN 

I  assure  you  .   .  . 

FELIX 

I  understand  .   .   . 
REUMANN  (embarrassed) 

What  can  there  be  to  understand  .  .   .    ? 

FELIX 

My  dear  Doctor  ...  I  know  now  .  .  .  why  you 
don't  want  to  come  to  this  house  any  more.  .  .  It's 
another  case  of  somebody  else  breaking  his  neck. 
.  .  .  Dear  friend  .   .  . 

REUMANN 

Good  luck  to  you  .  .   .  Felix  .  .  . 

FELIX 

And  if  anybody  should  call  you  back  .  .  . 


ACT  III]  THE  LONELY  WAY  83 

REUMANN 

Nobody  will.   .   .   .  But  If  I  slionld  be  needed,  I  can 
always  be  found   .   .   . 
JOHANNA  {comes  into  the  room  again) 

REUMANN 

Good-by  .  ,  .  Good-bj,  Miss  Jobanna  .  .  . 

JOHANNA 

Are  you  going  already,  Doctor? 

REUMANN 

Yes.  .  .  .  Give  my  regards  to  your  father.  Good- 
by.   .   .   .    {He  shakes  her  hand) 

JOHANNA  {calmly) 

Did  he  tell  you  that  Sala  is  doomed? 

FELIX  {hesitates  about  what  to  say) 

JOHANNA 

I  knew  it.  {With  an  odd  gesture  of  deprecation  as 
Felix  wants  to  say  something)  And  you  are  going 
— with  or  without  him? 

FELIX 

Yes.     {Pause)     There  won't  be  much  doing  in   this 
place  after  this. 
JOHANNA  {remains  unmoved) 

FELIX 

And   how  are  you  going  to  live,  Johanna?  ...  I 
mean,  how  are  the  two  of  you  going  to  live — you 
and  father? 
JOHANNA  {gives  him  a  look  as  if  Jiis  question  surprised 
her) 

FELFX 

He  is  going  to  be  lonely,  I  think  he  would  feel  very 
grateful  if  3'ou  took  a  little  more  interest  in  him — 
if  you  went  for  a  walk  for  him  when  there  is  time  for 
it.     And  you,  too  .  .  . 


84  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  m 

JOHANNA  {brusquely) 

How  could  that  help  me  or  him?  What  can  he  be 
to  me  or  I  to  him?  I  was  not  made  to  assist  people 
in  days  of  trial,  I  can't  help  it,  but  that's  the  way 
I  am.  I  seem  to  be  stirred  by  a  sort  of  hostility 
against  people  who  appeal  to  my  pity.  I  felt  it  like 
that  all  the  time  mother  was  sick. 

FELIX 

No,   yovL  were   not   made   for   that.   .   .   .  But  what 
were  you  made  for  then? 
JOHANNA  {shrugs  her  shoulders  and  sits  down  as  be- 
fore,  with   hands  folded   in  her  lap   and  her  eyes 
staring  straight  ahead) 

FELIX 

Johanna,  why  do  you  never  talk  to  me  any  more  as 
you  used  to?  Have  you,  then,  nothing  to  tell  me? 
Don't  you  remember  how  we  used  to  tell  each  other 
everything? 

JOHANNA 

That  was  long  ago.     We  were  children  then. 

FELIX 

Why  can't  you  talk  to  me  any  longer  as  you  did 
then?  Have  you  forgotten  how  well  we  two  used  to 
understand  each  other?  How  we  used  to  confide  all 
our  secrets  to  each  other?  What  good  chums  we 
used  to  be?  .  .  .  How  we  wanted  to  go  out  into  the 
wide  world  together? 

JOHANNA 

Into  the  wide  world.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  But 
there  is  nothing  left  now  of  all  those  words  of  won- 
der and  romance. 

FELIX 

Perhaps  it  depends  on  ourselves  only. 


ACT  ni]  THE  LONELY  WAY  85 

JOHANNA 

No,  those  words  have  no  longer  the  same  meaning  as 
before. 

FELIX 

What  do  you  mean? 

JOHANNA 

Into  the  wide  world  .   .   . 

FELIX 

What  is  the  matter,  Johanna? 

JOHANNA 

Once,  when  we  were  in  the  museum  together,  I  saw  a 
picture  of  which  I  often  think.  It  has  a  meadow  with 
knights  and  ladies  in  it — and  a  forest,  a  vineyard,  an 
inn,  and  young  men  and  women  dancing,  and  a  big 
city  with  churches  and  towers  and  bridges.  And  sol- 
diers are  marching  across  tlie  bridges,  and  a  ship  is 
gliding  down  the  river.  And  farther  back  there  is  a 
hill,  and  on  that  hill  a  castle,  and  lofty  mountains  in 
the  extreme  distance.  And  clouds  are  floating  above 
the  mountains,  and  there  is  mist  on  the  meadow,  and 
a  flood  of  sunlight  is  pouring  down  on  the  city, 
and  a  storm  is  raging  over  the  castle,  and  there  is 
ice  and  snow  on  the  mountains. — And  when  anybody 
spoke  of  "the  wide  world,"  or  I  read  that  term  any- 
where, I  used  always  to  think  of  that  picture.  And 
it  used  to  be  the  same  with  so  many  other  big-sound- 
ing words.  Fear  was  a  tiger  with  cavernous  mouth 
— love  was  a  page  with  long  light  curls  kneeling  at 
the  feet  of  a  lady — death  was  a  beautiful  young  man 
with  black  wings  and  a  sword  in  liis  hand — and  fame 
was  blarinor  bugles,  men  with  bent  backs,  and  a  road 
strewn  with  flowers.  In  those  days  it  was  possible 
to  talk  of  all  sorts  of  things,  Felix.     But  to-day 


86  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  hi 

everything  has   a  different  look — fame,   and  death, 
and  love,  and  the  wide  world. 
FELIX  (hesitatingly) 

I  feel  a  little  scared  on  your  behalf,  Johanna. 

JOHANNA 

Why,  Felix? 

FELIX 

Johanna ! — I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  anything  to 
worry  father. 

JOHANNA 

Does  that  depend  on  me  alone? 

FELIX 

I  know  in  what  direction  your  dreams  are  going, 
Johanna. — What  is  to  come  out  of  that? 

JOHANNA 

Is  it  necessary  that  something  comes  out  of  every- 
thing?— I  think,  Felix,  that  many  people  are  des- 
tined to  mean  nothing  to  each  other  but  a  common 
memory. 

FELIX 

You  have  said  it  yourself,  Johanna — that  you  are 
not  made  to  see  other  people  suffer. 
JOHANNA  {shrinks  slightly  at  those  words) 

FELIX 

Suffer  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
JULIAN  {enters) 

How  are  you?     {He  shakes  hands  mth  Felix) 
JOHANNA  (who  has  risen) 

Mr.  Fichtner.     {She  holds  out  her  hand  to  him) 

JULIAN 

I  could  hardly  recognize  you,  Johanna.  You  have 
grown  into  a  young  lady  now. — Has  your  father  not 
come  home  yet? 


ACT  III]  THE  LONELY  WAY  87 

JOHANNA 

He  hasn't  gone  out  yet.     He  has  nothing  to  do  at 
the  Academy  until  twelve. 

JULIAN 

I  suppose  he's  in  his  studio? 

JOHANNA 

I'll  call  him. 

{^Julian  looks  around.    As  Johanna  is  about  to  leave 

the  room,  Wegrat  enters,  carrying  his  hat  and  stick. 

WEGRAT  (giving  his  hand  to  Julian) 
I'm  delighted,  my  dear  fellow. 

JULIAN 

I  hoard  of  it  only  after  my  arrival  here  yesterday — 
through  Sala.     I  don't  need  to  tell  you  .   .  . 

WEGRAT 

Thank  you  very  much  for  your  sympathy.     I  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart. — But  sit  down,  please. 

JULIAN 

You  were  going  out.'' 

WEGRAT 

Oh,  it's  no  hurry.  I  have  nothing  to  do  in  the  Acad- 
emy until  twelve.  Johanna,  will  you  please  get  a 
carriage  for  me,  just  to  be  on  the  safe  side? 
l^Johannu  goes  out.  Wegrat  seats  himself,  as  docs 
Julian.  Felix  stands  leaning  against  the  glazed 
oven. 

WEGRAT 

Well,  you  stayed  away  quite  a  while  this  time. 

JULIAN 

More  than  two  years. 


88  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  hi 


WEGRAT 

If  you  had  only  got  here  ten  days  earlier,  you  could 
have  had  a  last  look  at  her.  It  came  so  very  sud- 
denly— although  it  wasn't  unexpected. 

JULIAN 

So  I  have  heard. 

WEGRAT 

And  now  you  are  going  to  stay  right  here,  I  sup- 
pose? 

JULIAN 

A  little  while.    How  long  I  am  not  yet  able  to  tell. 

WEGRAT 

Of  course  not.  The  making  of  schedules  has  never 
been  your  line. 

JULIAN 

No,  I  have  a  certain  disinclination  for  that  kind  of 
thing.     (Pause) 

WEGRAT 

Oh,  mercy,  my  dear  fellow  .  .  .  how  often  have  I 
not  been  thinking  of  you  recently ! 

JULIAN 

And  I  .  .  . 

WEGRAT 

No,  you  haven't  had  much  chance  for  it.  .  .  .  But  I 
...  As  I  enter  the  building  where  I  now  hold  office 
and  authority,  I  remember  often  how  we  two  young 
chaps  used  to  sit  side  by  side  in  the  model  class,  full 
of  a  thousand  plans  and  hopes. 

JULIAN 

Why  do  you  say  that  in  such  a  melancholy  tone?  A 
lot  of  those  things  have  come  true,  haven't  they? 


ACT  III]  THE  LONELY  WAY  89 

WEGRAT 

Some — yes  .  .  .  And  yet  one  can't  help  wanting  to 
be  young  again,  even  at  the  risk  of  similar  sorrows 
and  struggles  .   .   . 

JULIAN 

And  even  at  the  risk  of  also  having  to  live  through 
a  lot  of  nice  things  over  again. 

WEGRAT 

Indeed,  those  are  the  hardest  things  to  bear,  once 
they  have  turned  into  memories. — You  have  been  in 
Italy  again  .f^ 

JULIAN 

Yes,  in  Italy  too. 

WEGRAT 

It's  a  long  time  now  since  I  was  there.  Since  we 
made  that  walk  together  through  the  Ampezzo  Val- 
ley,^ with  the  pack  on  our  backs — to  Pieve,  and  then 
right  on  to  Venice.  Can  you  remember?  The  sun 
has  never  again  shone  as  brightly  as  it  did  then. 

JULIAN 

That  must  have  been  almost  thirty  years  ago. 

WEGRAT 

No,  not  quite.  You  were  already  pretty  well  known 
at  the  time.  You  had  just  finished  your  splendid 
picture  of  Irene  Herms.  It  was  the  year  before  I 
married. 

JULIAN 

Yes,  yes.     (Pause) 

^  One  of  the  main  routes  through  the  Dolomites,  leading  from 
Southern  Tirol  into  Italy.  It  is  in  part  identical  with  tht'  route 
outlined  by  Albert  in  "Intermezzo,"  but  parts  from  it  at  Cortina 
to  run  straight  south. 


90  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iii 

WEGRAT 

Do  you  still  recall  the  summer  morning  when  you 
went  with  me  to  Kirchau  for  the  first  time? 

JULIAN 

Of  course. 

WEGRAT 

How  the  light  buggy  carried  us  through  the  wide, 
sun-steeped  valley?     And  do  you  remember  the  little 
garden  at  Hiigclhang,  where  you  became  acquainted 
with  Gabrielle  and  her  parents? 
FELIX  {xvith  suppressed  emotion) 

Father,  is  the  house  in  which  mother  used  to  live 
still  standing? 

WEGRAT 

No,  it's  gone  long  ago.  They  have  built  a  villa  on 
the  spot.  Five  or  six  years  ago,  you  know,  we  went 
there  for  the  last  time  to  visit  the  graves  of  your 
grandparents.  Everything  has  been  changed,  ex- 
cept the  cemetery.  .  .  .  {To  Julian)  Can  you  still 
remember  that  cool,  cloudy  afternoon,  Julian,  when 
we  sat  on  the  lower  wall  of  the  cemetery  and  had 
such  a  remarkable  talk  about  the  future? 

JULIAN 

I  remember  the  day  very  clearly.  But  I  have  entirely 
forgotten  what  we  were  talking  about. 

WEGRAT 

Just  what  we  said  has  passed  out  of  my  mind,  too, 
but  I  can  still  remember  what  an  extraordinary  talk 
it  was.  ...  In  some  way  the  world  seemed  to  open 
up  more  widely.  And  I  felt  something  like  envy 
toward  you,  as  I  often  did  in  those  days.  There  rose 
within  me  a  feeling  that  I,  too,  could  do  anything — 
if  I  only  wanted.      There  was  so  much  to  be  seen 


ACT  m]  THE  LONELY  WAY  91 

and  experienced — and  the  flow  of  life  was  irresistible. 
Nothing  would  be  needed  but  a  little  more  nerve,  a 
little  more  self-assurance,  and  then  to  plunge  in. 
.  .  .  Yes,  that  was  what  I  felt  while  you  were  talk- 
ing. .  .  .  And  then  Gabrielle  came  toward  us  along 
the  narrow  road  from  the  village,  between  the  aca- 
cias. She  carried  her  straw  hat  in  her  hand,  and 
she  nodded  to  me.  And  all  my  dreams  of  the  future 
centered  in  her  after  that,  and  once  more  the  whole 
world  seemed  fitted  into  a  frame,  and  yet  it  was  big 
and  beautiful  enough.  .  .  .  Why  does  the  color  all 
of  a  sudden  come  back  into  those  things?  It  was 
practically  forgotten,  all  of  it,  and  now,  when  she  is 
dead,  it  comes  to  life  again  with  a  glow  that  almost 
scares  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  were  better  not  to  think  of 
it  at  all.  What's  the  use?  What's  the  use?  (Pause; 
he  goes  to  one  of  the  windows) 
JULIAN  (struggling  to  overcome  his  embarrassment) 
It  is  both  wise  and  brave  of  you  to  resume  your  regu- 
lar activities  so  promptly. 

WEGRAT 

Oh,  once  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  go  on  liv- 
ing .  .  .  There  is  nothing  but  work  that  can  help 
you  through  this  sense  of  being  alone — of  being 
left  alone. 

JULIAN 

It  seems  to  me  that  your  grief  makes  you  a  little 
unjust  toward — much  that  is  still  yours. 

WEGRAT 

Unjust  .  .  .  ?  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to.  I  hope  you 
don't  feel  hurt,  children  .  .  .  !  Felix,  you  under- 
stand me  fully,  don't  you?  There  is  so  much,  from 
the   very   beginning,   that   draws — that   lures — that 


92  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  m 

tears  the  young  ones  away  from  us.  We  have  to 
struggle  to  keep  our  children  almost  from  the  very 
moment  they  arrive — and  the  struggle  is  a  pretty 
hopeless  one  at  that.  But  that's  the  way  of  life: 
they  cannot  possibly  belong  to  us.  And  as  far  as 
other  people  are  concerned  .  .  .  Even  our  friends 
come  into  our  lives  only  as  guests  who  rise  from 
the  table  when  they  have  eaten,  and  walk  out.  Like 
us,  they  have  their  own  streets,  their  own  affairs. 
And  it's  quite  natural  it  should  be  so.  .  .  .  Which 
doesn't  prevent  us  from  feeling  pleased,  Julian — 
sincerely  pleased,  when  one  of  them  finds  his  way 
back  to  us.  Especially  if  it  be  one  on  whom  we 
have  put  great  store  throughout  life.  You  may  be 
sure  of  that,  Julian.  {They  shake  hands)  And  as 
long  as  you  remain  in  Vienna,  I  shall  see  you  here 
quite  often,  I  trust.  It  will  give  me  genuine  pleas- 
ure. 

JULIAN 

I'll  be  sure  to  come. 

MAID  {enters) 

The  carriage  is  here,  Professor.     {She  goes  out) 

WEGRAT 

I'm  coming.  {To  Julian)  You  must  have  a  lot  to 
tell  me.  You  were  as  good  as  lost.  You  understand 
it  will  interest  me  to  hear  all  you  have  done — and 
still  more  what  you  intend  to  do.  Felix  told  us  the 
other  day  about  some  very  interesting  sketches  you 
had  showed  him. 

JULIAN 

I'll  go  with  you,  if  you  care  to  have  me. 


ACT  m]  THE  LONELY  WAY  93 

m  ••       .-.—  ■■  ■      — '■     - ■    ■   -       .  I    ■  —  ■  ■  ■   - 

WEGRAT 

Thanks.     But  it  would  be  still  nicer  of  you  to  stay 
right  here  and  take  dinner  with  us. 

JULIAN 

Well  .   .  . 

WEGRAT 

I'll  be  through  very  quickly.  To-day  I  have  noth- 
ing but  a  few  business  matters  to  dispose  of — noth- 
ing but  signing  a  few  documents.  I'll  be  back  in 
three-quarters  of  an  hour.  In  the  meantime  the 
children  will  keep  you  company  as  they  used  to  in 
the  old  days.  .  .  .  Won't  you,  children? — So  you're 
staying,  are  you  not.'*  Good-by  for  a  little  while 
then.  {He  goes  out) 
[Long  pause. 

FELIX 

Why  didn't  you  go  with  him.'' 

JULIAN 

Your  mother  was  without  blame.     If  any  there  be, 
it  falls  on  me  alone.     I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 
FELIX  (nods) 

JULIAN 

It  had  been  arranged  that  we  were  to  go  away  to- 
gether. Everything  was  ready.  We  meant  to  leave 
the  place  secretly  because,  quite  naturally,  your 
mother  shrank  from  any  kind  of  statement  or  ex- 
planation. Our  intention  was  to  write  and  explain 
after  we  had  been  gone  a  few  days.  The  hour  of 
our  start  had  already  been  settled.  He  .  .  .  who 
later  became  her  husband,  had  just  gone  to  Vienna 
for  a  couple  of  days  in  order  to  get  certain  docu- 
ments. The  wedding  was  to  take  place  in  a  week. 
(Pause)     Our  plans  were  all  made.     We  had  agreed 


94  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  m 

on  everything.  The  carriage  that  was  to  pick  us  up 
a  little  ways  off  had  already  been  hired.  In  the 
evening  we  bade  each  other  good-night,  fully  con- 
vinced that  we  should  meet  next  morning,  never  to 
part  again. — It  turned  out  differently. — ^You  mustn't 
keep  in  mind  that  it  was  your  mother.  You  must 
listen  to  me  as  if  my  story  dealt  with  perfect 
strangers.  .  .  .  Then  you  can  understand  every- 
thing. 

FELIX 

I  am  listening. 

JULIAN 

I  had  come  to  Kirchau  in  June,  one  beautiful  Sum- 
mer morning — with  him.  .  .  .  You  know  about  that, 
don't  you.'*  I  meant  to  stay  only  a  few  days.  But 
I  stayed  on  and  on.  More  than  once  I  tried  to  get 
away  while  it  was  still  time.  But  I  stayed.  (Smil- 
ing) And  with  fated  inevitability  we  slipped  into 
sin,  happiness,  doom,  betrayal — and  dreams.  Yes, 
indeed,  there  was  more  of  those  than  of  anything 
else.  And  after  that  last  farewell,  meant  to  be  for 
a  night  only — as  I  got  back  to  the  little  inn  and 
started  to  make  things  ready  for  our  journey — only 
then  did  I  for  the  first  time  become  really  conscious 
of  what  had  happened  and  was  about  to  happen. 
Actually,  it  was  almost  as  if  I  had  just  waked  up. 
Only  then,  in  the  stillness  of  that  night,  as  I  was 
standing  at  the  open  window,  did  it  grow  clear  to 
me  that  next  morning  an  hour  would  come  by  which 
my  whole  future  must  be  determined.  And  then  I 
began  to  feel  ...  as  if  faint  shiverings  had 
been  streaming  down  my  body.  Below  me  I  could 
see    the    stretch    of    road    along   which    I    had   just 


ACT  m]  THE  LONELY  WAY  95 

come.  It  ran  on  and  on  througli  the  country, 
climbing  the  hills  that  cut  off  the  view,  and  los- 
ing itself  in  the  open,  the  limitless.  ...  It  led 
to  thousands  of  unknown  and  invisible  roads,  all 
of  which  at  that  moment  remained  at  my  dis- 
posal. It  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  future,  radiant  with 
glory  and  adventure,  lay  waiting  for  me  behind  those 
hills — but  for  me  alone.  Life  was  mine — but  only 
this  one  life.  And  in  order  to  seize  it  and  enjoy  it 
fully — in  order  to  live  it  as  it  had  been  shaped  for 
me  by  fate — I  needed  the  carelessness  and  free- 
dom I  had  enjoyed  until  then.  And  I  marveled  al- 
most at  my  own  readiness  to  give  away  the  reckless- 
ness of  my  youth  and  the  fullness  of  my  existence. 
.  .  .  And  to  what  purpose.? — For  the  sake  of  a  pas- 
sion which,  after  all,  despite  its  ardor  and  its  trans- 
ports, had  begun  like  many  others,  and  would  be 
destined  to  end  like  all  of  them. 

FELIX 

Destined  to  end  .  .  .    ?    Must  come  to  an  end.'* 

JULIAN 

Yes.  Must.  The  moment  I  foresaw  the  end,  I  had 
in  a  measure  reached  it.  To  wait  for  something  that 
must  come,  means  to  go  through  it  a  thousand  times 
— to  go  through  it  helplessly  and  needlessly  and 
resentfully.  This  I  felt  acutely  at  that  moment. 
And  it  frightened  me.  At  the  same  time  I  felt  clearly 
that  I  was  about  to  act  like  a  brute  and  a  traitor 
toward  a  human  being  who  had  given  herself  to  me 
in  full  confidence. — But  everything  seemed  more  de- 
sirable— not  only  for  me,  but  for  her  also — than  a 
slow,  miserable,  unworthy  decline.  And  all  my  scru- 
ples were  submerged  in  a  monstrous  longing  to  go 


96  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  m 

on  with  my  life  as  before,  without  duties  or  ties. 
There  wasn't  much  time  left  for  consideration.  And 
I  was  glad  of  it.  I  had  made  up  ray  mind.  I  didn't 
wait  for  the  morning.  Before  the  stars  had  set,  I 
was  off. 

FELIX 

You  ran  away.  .  .  , 

JULIAN 

Call  it  anything  you  please. — ^Yes,  it  was  a  flight, 
just  as  good  and  just  as  bad,  just  as  precipitate 
and  just  as  cowardly  as  any  other — with  all  the  hor- 
rors of  being  pursued  and  all  the  joys  of  escaping. 
I  am  hiding  nothing  from  you,  Felix.  You  are 
still  young,  and  it  is  even  possible  that  you 
may  understand  it  better  than  I  can  under- 
stand it  myself  to-day.  Nothing  pulled  me  back. 
No  remorse  stirred  within  me.  The  sense  of  being 
free  filled  me  with  intoxication.  .  .  .  At  the  end  of 
the  first  day  I  was  already  far  away — much  farther 
than  any  number  of  milestones  could  indicate.  On 
that  first  day  her  image  began  to  fade  away  already 
— the  image  of  her  who  had  waked  up  to  meet  pain- 
ful disillusionment,  or  worse  maybe.  The  ring  of 
her  voice  was  passing  out  of  my  memory.  .  .  .  She 
was  becoming  a  shadow  like  others  that  had  been  left 
floating  much  farther  behind  me  in  the  past. 

FELIX 

Oh,  it  isn't  true !  So  quickly  could  she  not  be  for- 
gotten. So  remorselessly  could  you  not  go  out  in 
the  world.  All  this  is  meant  as  a  sort  of  expiation. 
You  make  yourself  apj)ear  what  you  are  not. 


ACT  m]  THE  LONELY  WAY  97 

JULIAN 

I  am  not  telling  you  these  things  to  accuse  or  defend 
myself.  I  am  simply  telling  you  the  truth.  And 
you  must  hear  it.  It  was  your  mother,  and  I  am  the 
man  who  deserted  her.  And  there  is  something  more 
I  am  compelled  to  tell  you.  On  the  very  time  that 
followed  my  flight  I  must  look  back  as  the  brightest 
and  richest  of  any  I  have  ever  experienced.  Never 
before  or  after  have  I  reveled  to  such  an  extent  in 
the  splendid  consciousness  of  my  youth  and  my  free- 
dom from  restraint.  Never  have  I  been  so  wholly 
master  of  mv  ffifts  and  of  mv  life.  .  .  .  Never  have 
I  been  a  happier  man  than  I  was  at  that  very  time. 

FELIX  (calml?/) 

And  if  she  had  killed  herself? 

JULIAX 

I  believe  I  should  have  thought  myself  worth  it — 
in  those  days. 

FELIX 

And  so  3^ou  were,  perhaps,  at  that  time. — And  she 
thought  of  doing  it,  I  am  sure.  She  wanted  to  put 
an  end  to  the  lies  and  the  qualms,  just  as  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  girls  have  done  before.  But  millions 
fail  to  do  it,  and  they  are  the  most  sensible  ones. 
And  I  am  sure  she  also  thought  of  telling  the  truth 
to  him  she  took  to  husband.  But,  of  course,  the  way 
through  life  is  easier  when  jj^ou  don't  have  to  carry 
a  burden  of  reproach  or,  what  is  worse,  of  forgive- 
ness. 

JULIAN 

And  if  she  had  spoken  .   .   . 


98  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  hi 

FELIX 

Oh,  I  understand  why  she  didn't.  It  had  been  of 
no  use  to  anybody.  And  so  she  kept  silent:  silent 
when  she  got  back  from  the  wedding — silent  when 
her  child  was  born — silent  when,  ten  years  later,  the 
lover  came  to  her  husband's  house  again — silent  to 
the  very  last.  .  .  .  Fates  of  that  kind  are  to  be 
found  everywhere,  and  it  isn't  even  necessary  to  be — 
depraved,  in  order  to  suffer  them  or  invoke  them. 

JULIAN 

And  there  are  mighty  few  whom  it  behooves  to  judge 
— or  to  condemn. 

FELIX 

I  don't  presume  to  do  so.  And  it  doesn't  even  occur 
to  me  that  I  am  now  to  behold  deceivers  and  de- 
ceived where,  a  few  hours  ago,  I  could  only  see  peo- 
ple who  were  dear  to  me  and  whose  relationships  to 
each  other  were  perfectly  pure.  And  it  is  abso- 
lutely impossible  for  me  to  feel  myself  another  man 
than  I  have  deemed  myself  until  to-day.  There  is 
no  power  in  all  this  truth.  ...  A  vivid  dream 
would  be  more  compelling  than  this  story  out  of 
bygone  days,  which  you  have  just  told  me.  Noth- 
ing has  changed — nothing  whatever.  The  thought 
of  my  mother  is  as  sacred  to  me  as  ever.  And  the 
man  in  whose  house  I  was  born  and  raised,  who  sur- 
rounded my  childhood  and  youth  with  care  and  ten- 
derness, and  whom  my  mother— loved  .  .  .  He 
means  just  as  much  to  me  now  as  he  has  ever  meant 
• — and  perhaps  a  little  more. 

JULIAN 

And  yet,  Felix,  however  powerless  this  truth  may 
seem  to  you — there  is  one  thing  you  can  take  hold 


ACT  ra]  THE  LONELY  WAY  99 

of  in  this  moment  of  doubt:  it  was  as  my  son  your 
mother  gave  birth  to  you  .   .   . 

FELIX 

At  a  time  when  you  had  run  away  from  her. 

JULIAN 

And  as  my  son  she  brought  you  up. 

FELIX 

In  hatred  of  you. 

JULIAN 

At  first.  Later  in  forgiveness,  and  finally — don't 
forget  it — in  friendship  toward  me.  .  .  .  And  what 
was  in  her  mind  that  last  night? — Of  what  did  she 
talk  to  you? — Of  those  days  when  she  experienced 
the  greatest  happiness  that  can  fall  to  the  share  of 
any  woman. 

FELIX 

As  well  as  the  greatest  misery. 

JULIAN 

Do  you  think  it  was  mere  chance  which  brought 
those  very  days  back  to  her  mind  that  last  evening? 
.  .  .  Don't  you  think  she  knew  that  you  would  go 
to  me  and  ask  for  that  picture?  .  .  .  And  do  3'ou 
think  your  wish  to  see  it  could  have  any  other  mean- 
ing than  of  a  final  greeting  to  me  from  your  mother? 
.  .  .  Can't  you  understand  that,  Felix?  .  .  .  And 
in  this  moment — don't  try  to  resist — you  have  it 
before  your  eyes — that  picture  you  held  in  your 
hand  yesterday :  and  your  mother  is  looking  at  you. 
— And  the  glance  resting  on  3^ou,  Felix,  is  the  same 
one  that  rested  on  me  that  passionate  and  sacred 
day  when  she  fell  into  my  arms  and  you  were  con- 
ceived.— And  whatever  you  may  feel  of  doubt  or 
confusion,  the  truth  has  now  been  revealed  to  you 


100  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  in 


once  for  all.  Thus  your  mother  willed  it,  and  it  is 
no  longer  possible  for  you  to  forget  that  you  are  ray 
son. 

FELIX 

Your  son.  .  .  .  That's  nothing  but  a  word.  And 
it's  cried  in  a  desert. — Although  I  am  looking  at  you 
now,  and  although  I  know  that  I  am  your  son,  I 
can't  grasp  it. 

JULIAN 

Felix  .  .  .    ! 

FELIX 

Since  I  learned  of  this,  you  have  become  a  stranger 
to  me.     {He  turns  away) 

CURTAIN 


THE    FOURTH    ACT 

The  garden  belonging  to  Mr.  von  Sola's  house.  At 
the  left  is  seen  the  white,  one-storied  building,  fronted 
by  a  broad  terrace,  from  which  six  stone  steps  lead 
down  into  the  garden.  A  wide  door  with  panes  of 
gloss  leads  from  the  terrace  into  the  draxmng-room.  A 
small  pool  appears  in  the  foreground,  surrounded  by 
a  semi-circle  of  young  trees.  From  that  spot  an  ave- 
nu£  of  trees  runs  diagonally  across  the  stage  toward 
the  right.  At  the  opening  of  the  avemie,  near  the 
pool,  stand  two  columns  on  which  are  placed  the  mar- 
ble busts  of  two  Roman  emperors.  A  semi-circular 
stone  seat  with  back  support  stands  under  the  trees 
to  the  right  of  the  pool.  Farther  bock  glimpses  of  the 
glittering  fence  are  caught  through  the  scanty  leafage. 
Back  of  the  fence,  the  woods  on  a  gently  rising  hillside 
are  turning  red.  The  autumnal  sky  is  pale  blue. 
Everything  is  quiet.  The  stage  remains  empty  for  a 
few  moments. 

Sola  and  Johanna  enter  by  way  of  the  terrace.  She 
is  in  black.  He  has  on  a  gray  suit  and  carries  a  dark 
overcoat  across  his  shoulders.  They  descend  the  steps 
slowly. 

SAI>A 

I  think  you'll  find  it  rather  cool.  (He  goes  back 
into  the  room,  picks  up  a  cape  lying  there,  and  puts 
it  around  Johanna's  shoulders;  little  by  little  they 
reach  the  garden) 


102  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

JOHANNA 

Do  you  know  what  I  imagine?  .  .  .  That  this  day 
is  our  own — that  it  belongs  to  us  alone.  We  have 
summoned  it,  and  if  we  wanted,  we  could  make  it 
stay.  .  .  .  All  other  people  live  only  as  guests  in 
the  world  to-day.  Isn't  that  so?  .  .  .  The  reason 
is,  I  suppose,  that  once  I  heard  you  speak  of  this 
day. 

SALA 

Of  this  .  .  .   ? 

JOHANNA 

Yes — while  mother  was  still  living.  .  .  .  And  now  it 
has  really  come.  The  leaves  are  red.  The  golden 
mist  is  lying  over  the  woods.  The  sky  is  pale  and 
remote — and  the  day  is  even  more  beautiful,  and 
sadder,  than  I  could  ever  have  imagined.  And  I  am 
spending  it  in  your  garden,  and  your  pool  is  my 
mirror.  (She  stands  looki/ng  down  into  the  pool) 
And  yet  we  can  no  more  make  it  stay,  this  golden 
day,  than  the  water  here  can  hold  my  image  after  I 
have  gone  away. 

SALA 

It  seems  strange  that  this  clear,  mild  air  should  be 
tinged  with  a  suggestion  of  winter  and  snow. 

JOHANNA 

Why  should  it  trouble  you?  When  that  suggestion 
has  become  reality  here,  you  are  already  in  the  midst 
of  another  Spring. 

SALA 

What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  I  suppose  that  where  you  go  they  have  no  win- 
ter like  ours. 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  103 

SALA  {'pensively) 

No,  not  like  ours.     {Pause)     And  you? 

JOHANNA 

I  .  .  .   ? 

SALA 

What  are  you  going  to  do,  I  mean,  when  I  am  gone? 

JOHANNA 

When  you  arc  gone  .  .  .  ?  {She  looks  at  him,  and 
he  stands  staring  into  the  distance)  Haven't  you 
gone  long  ago?  And  at  bottom,  are  you  not  far 
away  from  me  even  now? 

SALA 

What  are  you  saying?  I  am  here  with  you.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  going  to  do,  Johanna? 

JOHANNA 

I  have  already  told  you.     Go  away — just  like  you. 
SALA  {shakes  his  head) 

JOHANNA 

As  soon  as  possible.  I  have  still  the  courage  left. 
Who  knows  what  may  become  of  me  later,  if  I  stay 
here  alone. 

SALA 

As  long  as  you  are  young,  all  doors  stand  open,  and 
the  world  begins  outside  every  one  of  them. 

JOHANNA 

But  the  world  is  wide  and  the  sky  infinite  only  as 
long  as  you  are  not  clinging  to  anybody.  And  for 
that  reason  I  want  to  go  away. 

SALA 

Away — that's  so  easily  said.  But  preparations  are 
needed  for  that  purpose,  and  some  sort  of  a  scheme. 
You  use  the  word  as  if  you  merely  had  to  put  on 
wings  and  fly  off  into  the  distance. 


104  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

JOHANNA  \ 

To  be  determined  is — the  same  as  having  wings. 

SALA 

Are  jou  not  at  all  afraid,  Johanna? 

JOHANNA 

A  longing  free  from  fear  would  be  too  cheap  to  be 
worth  while. 

SALA 

Where  will  it  lead  you? 

JOHANNA 

I  shall  find  my  way. 

SALA 

You  can  choose  your  way,  but  not  the  people  that 
you  meet. 

JOHANNA 

Do  you  think  me  ignorant  of  the^  fact  that  I  cannot 
expect  only  beautiful  experiences?  What  is  ugly 
and  mean  must  also  be  waiting  for  me. 

SALA 

And  how  are  you  going  to  stand  it? — Will  you  be 
able  to  stand  it  at  all? 

JOHANNA 

Of  course,  I  am  not  going  to  tell  the  truth  always 
as  I  have  done  to  you.  I  shall  have  to  lie — and  I 
think  of  it  with  pleasure.  I  shall  not  always  be  in 
good  spirits,  nor  always  sensible.  I  shall  make  mis- 
takes and  suffer.  That's  the  way  it  has  to  be,  I 
suppose. 

SALA 

Of  all  this  you  are  aware  in  advance,  and  yet  .  .  .   ? 

JOHANNA 

Yes. 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  106 

SALA 

And  why?  .   .   .  Why  are  you  going  awa}',  Johanna? 

JOHANNA 

Why  am  I  going  away?  ...  I  want  a  time  to  come 
when  I  must  shudder  at  myself.  Shudder  as  deeply 
as  you  can  only  when  nothing  has  been  left  untried. 
Just  as  you  have  had  to  do  when  you  looked  back 
upon  your  life.     Or  have  j^ou  not? 

SALA 

Oh,  many  times.  But  just  in  such  moments  of  shud- 
dering there  is  nothing  left  behind  at  all — every- 
thing is  once  more  present.  And  the  present  Is  the 
past.     {He  sits  down  on  the  stone  seat) 

JOHANNA 

What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
SALA  {covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  sits  silent) 

JOHANNA 

What  is  the  matter?    Where  are  you  anyhow? 

[A  light  wvnd  stirs  the  leaves  and  makes  many  of 

them  drop  to  the  ground. 

SALA 

I  am  a  child,  riding  my  pony  across  the  fields.  My 
father  is  behind  and  calls  to  me.  At  that  window 
waits  my  mother.  She  has  thrown  a  gray  satin 
shawl  over  her  dark  hair  and  is  waving  her  hand  at 
me.  .  .  .  And  I  am  a  young  lieutenant  in  maneu- 
vers, standing  on  a  hillock  and  reporting  to  my 
colonel  that  hostile  infantry  is  ambushed  behind 
that  wooded  piece  of  ground,  ready  to  charge,  and 
down  below  us  I  can  see  the  midday  sun  glittering 
on  bayonets  and  buttons.  .  .  .  And  I  am  lying  alone 
in  my  boat  adrift,  looking  up  into  the  deep-blue 
Summer  sky,  while  words  of  incomprehensible  beauty 


106  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

are  shaping  themselves  in  my  mind — words  more 
beautiful  than  I  have  ever  been  able  to  put  on  pa- 
per. .  .  .  And  I  am  resting  on  a  bench  in  the  cool 
park  at  the  lake  of  Lugano,  with  Helen  sitting  be- 
side me ;  she  holds  a  book  with  red  cover  in  her  hand ; 
over  there  by  the  magnolia,  Lillie  is  playing  with 
the  light-haired  English  boy,  and  I  can  hear  them 
prattling  and  laugliing.  .  .  .  And  I  am  walking 
slowdy  back  and  forth  with  Julian  on  a  bed  of  rus- 
tling leaves,  and  we  are  talking  of  a  picture  which 
we  saw  yesterday.  And  I  see  the  picture :  two  old 
sailors  with  worn-out  faces,  who  are  seated  on  an 
overturned  skiff,  their  sad  eyes  directed  toward  the 
boundless  sea.  And  I  feel  their  misery  more  deeply 
than  the  artist  who  painted  them ;  more  deeply  than 
they  could  have  felt  it  themselves,  had  they  been 
alive.  .  .  .  All  this — all  of  it  is  there — if  I  only 
close  my  eyes.  It  is  nearer  to  me  than  you,  Jo- 
hanna, when  I  don't  see  you  and  you  keep  quiet. 

JOHANNA  {stands  looking  at  Mm  with  wistful  sympa- 
thy) 

SAIiA 

The  present — what  does  it  mean  anyhow.''  Are  we 
then  locked  breast  to  breast  with  tlie  moment  as  with 
a  friend  whom  we  embrace — or  an  enemy  who  is 
pressing  us?  Has  not  the  word  that  just  rings  out 
turned  to  memory  already?  Is  not  the  note  that 
starts  a  melody  reduced  to  memory  before  the  song 
is  ended?  Is  your  coming  to  this  garden  anything 
but  a  memory,  Johanna?  Are  not  your  steps  across 
that  meadow  as  much  a  matter  of  the  past  as  are 
the  steps  of  creatures  dead  these  many  years? 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  107 

JOHANNA 

No,  it  mustn't  be  like  that.    It  makes  me  sad. 
SALA  (with  a  return  to  present  fJungs) 

Why?  ...  It  shouldn't,  Johanna.  It  is  in  hours 
like  those  we  know,  that  we  have  lost  nothing,  and 
that  in  reality  we  cannot  lose  anything. 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  I  wish  you  had  lost  and  forgotten  everything, 

so  that  I  might  be  everything  to  you! 
SALA  {somewhat  astonished) 

Johanna  .   .  . 
JOHANNA  {passionately) 

I  love  you.      {Pause) 

SALA 

In  a  few  da3's  I  shall  be  gone,  Johanna.  You  know 
it — you  have  known  it  right  along. 

JOHANNA 

I  know.  Why  do  you  repeat  it.''  Do  you  think,  per- 
haps, that  all  at  once  I  may  begin  to  clutch  at  you 
like  a  love-sick  thing,  dreaming  of  eternities? — No, 
that  isn't  my  way — oh,  no!  .  .  .  But  I  want  to  tell 
you  once  at  least  that  I  am  fond  of  you.  May  I 
not  for  once.'' — Do  3'ou  hear?  I  love  you.  And  I 
wish  that  sometime  later  on  you  may  hear  it  just  as 
I  am  saying  it  now — at  some  other  moment  no  less 
beautiful  than  this — when  we  two  shall  no  longer 
be  aware  of  each  other. 

SALA 

Indeed,  Johanna,  of  one  thing  you  may  be  sure: 
that  the  sound  of  your  voice  shall  never  leave  me. — 
But  why  should  we  talk  of  parting  forever?  Per- 
haps we  shall  meet  again  sooner  or  later  ...  in 
three    years  ...   or    in    five  .   .   .   {With    a    smile) 


108  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

Then  you  have  become  a  princess  perhaps,  and  I 
may  be   the   ruler   of  some  buried  city.  .  .  .  Why 
don't  you  speak? 
JOHANNA  (pulls  the  cape  more  closely  about  her) 

SALA 

Do  you  feel  cold? 

JOHANNA 

Not  at  all. — But  now  I  must  go. 

SALA 

Are  you  in  such  a  hurry? 

JOHANNA 

It  is  getting  late.  I  must  be  back  before  my  father 
gets  home. 

SALA 

How  strange !  To-day  you  are  hurrying  home,  fear- 
ful of  being  too  late,  lest  your  father  get  worried. 
And  in  a  couple  of  days   .   .   . 

JOHANNA 

Then  he  will  no  longer  be  waiting  for  me.  Fare- 
well, Stephan. 

SALA 

Until  to-morrow,  then. 

JOHANNA 

Yes,  until  to-morrow. 

SALA 

You'll  come  through  the  garden  gate,  of  course? 

JOHANNA 

Wasn't  that  a  carriage  that  stopped  before  the 
house  ? 

SALA 

The  doors  are  locked.  Nobody  can  get  out  into  the 
garden. 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  109 

JOHANNA 

Good-by,  then. 

SALA 

Until  to-morrow. 

JOHANNA 

Yes.     (She  is  about  to  go) 

SALA 

Listen,  Johanna. — If  I  should  say  to  you  now :  stay ! 

JOHANNA 

No,  I  must  go  now. 

SALA 

That  was  not  what  I  meant. 

JOHANNA 

What  then.? 

SALA 

I  mean,  if  I  should  beg  you  to  stay — for — a  long 
time  .'* 

JOHANNA 

You  have  a  peculiar  way  of  jesting.  ^ 

SALA 

I  am  not  jesting. 

JOHANNA 

Do  you  forget,  then,  that  you — are  going  away? 

SALA 

I  am  not  bound  in  any  respect.  There  is  nothing  to 
prevent  me  from  staying  at  home  if  I  don't  feel  like 
going  away. 

JOHANNA 

For  my  sake.? 

SALA 

I  didn't  say  so.     Maybe  for  my  own  sake. 


110  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 


JOHANNA 

No,  you  mustn't  give  it  up.  You  would  never  for- 
give me  if  I  took  that  away  from  you. 

SALA 

Oh,  you  think  so?  (Watching  her  closely)  And  if 
both  of  us  were  to  go? 

JOHANNA 

What? 

SALA 

If  you  should  risk  going  along  with  me?  Well,  it 
takes  a  little  courage  to  do  it,  of  course.  But  you 
would  probably  not  be  the  only  woman.  The 
Baroness  Golobin  is  also  going  along,  I  hear. 

JOHANNA 

Are  you  talking  seriously? 

SALA 

Quite  seriously.  I  ask  if  3^ou  care  to  go  with  me  on 
that  journey  ...  as  my  wife,  of  course,  seeing  that 
we  have  to  consider  externals  like  that,  too. 

JOHANNA 

I  should  .   .   .    ? 

SALA 

Why  does  that  move  you  so  deeply? 

JOHANNA 

With  you? — With  you  .  .  .    ? 

SALA 

Don't  misunderstand  me,  Johanna.  That's  no  rea- 
son why  you  should  be  tied  to  me  for  all  time.  When 
we  get  back,  we  can  bid  each  other  good-by — with- 
out the  least  ado.  It  is  a  very  simple  matter.  For 
all  your  dreams  cannot  be  fulfilled  by  me — I  know 
that  very  well.  .  .  .  You  need  not  give  me  an  answer 
at  once.    Hours  like  these  turn  too  easily  into  words 


ACT  IV ]  THE  LONELY  WAY  111 

that  are  not  true  the  next  day.     And  I  hope  I  may 
never  hear  you  speak  one  word  of  that  kind. 

JOHANNA  (who  has  been  looking  at  Sola  as  if  she 
wanted  to  drink  up  every  one  of  his  words)  No,  I 
am  not  saying  anything — I  am  not  saying  anything. 

SALA  (looking  long  at  her) 

You   are  going  to  think  it  over,  and  you'll  let  me 
know  to-morrow  morning? 

JOHANNA 

Yes.     (She  looks  long  at  him) 

SALA 

What  is  the  matter.? 

JOHANNA 

Notliing. — Until  to-morrow.  Farewell.  (He  ac- 
companies her  to  the  garden  gate,  through  which 
she  disappears) 
SALA  (comes  back  and  stands  looking  into  the  pool) 
Just  as  if  I  wanted  to  find  her  image  in  it.  .  .  . 
What  could  it  be  that  moved  her  so  deeply.'' 
.  .  .  Happiness.''  .  .  .  No,  it  wasn't  happiness.  .  .  . 
Why  did  she  look  at  me  like  that?  Why  did  she 
seem  to  shrink?  There  was  something  in  her  glance 
like  a  farewell  forever.  (He  makes  a  sudden  move- 
ment as  of  fright)  Has  it  come  to  that  with  me? 
.  .  .  But  how  can  she  know?  .  .  .  Then  others 
must  know  it  too  .  .  .  !  (He  stands  staring  into 
space;  then  he  ascends  the  terrace  slowly  and  goes 
into  the  drawing-room,  from  which  he  returns  a  few 
moments  later  accompanied  by  Julian) 

JULIAN 

And  you  want  to  leave  all  these  splendors  so  soon? 

SALA 

They'll  be  here  when  I  come  back,  I  hope. 


112  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

JULIAN 

I  hope  you  will,  for  the  sake  of  both  of  us. 

SALA 

You  say  that  rather  distrustingly.   .   .   . 

JULIAN 

Well,  yes — I  am  thinking  of  that  remarkable  article 
in  the  Daily  Post. 

SALA 

Concerning  what? 

JULIAN 

What  is  going  on  at  the  Caspian  Sea. 

SALA 

Oh,  are  the  local  papers  also  taking  that  up.'' 

JULIAN 

The  conditions  in  certain  regions  through  which  you 
have  to  pass  seem  really  to  be  extremely  dangerous. 

SALA 

Exaggerations.  We  have  better  information  than 
that.  According  to  my  opinion  there  is  nothing 
back  of  those  articles  but  the  petty  jealousy  of 
English  scientists.  What  you  read  had  been  trans- 
lated from  the  Daily  News.  And  it's  fully  three  weeks 
since  it  appeared  there. — Have  you  seen  Felix,  by 
the  way.f* 

JULIAN 

He  was  at  my  house  only  last  night.  And  this 
morning  I  called  on  the  Wegrats.  He  wanted  to 
have  a  look  at  that  picture  of  his  mother  which  I 
painted  twenty-three  years  ago. — And  one  thing 
and  another  led  to  my  telling  him  everything. 

SALA 

Oh,  you  did.?  (Thoughtfully)  And  how  did  he 
take  it? 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  113 

JULIAN 

It  stirred  him  rather  more  than  I  had  thought  pos- 
sible. 

SALA 

Well,  I  hope  you  didn't  expect  him  to  fall  into  your 
arms  as  the  recovered  son  does  in  the  play. 

JULIAN 

No,  of  course  not. — I  told  him  everything,  without 
any  attempt  at  sparing  myself.  And  for  that  rea- 
son he  seemed  to  feel  the  wrong  done  to  his  mother's 
husband  more  strongly  than  anything  else.  But 
that  won't  last  very  long.  He'll  soon  understand 
that,  in  the  higher  sense,  no  wrong  has  been  done  at 
all.  People  of  Wegrat's  type  are  not  made  to  hold 
actual  possession  of  anything — whether  it  be  wives 
or  children.  They  mean  a  refuge,  a  dwelling  place — 
but  never  a  real  home.  Can  you  understand  what 
I  mean  by  that.''  It  is  their  mission  to  take  into 
their  arms  creatures  who  have  been  worn  out  or 
broken  to  pieces  by  some  kind  of  passion.  But  they 
never  guess  whence  such  creatures  come.  And  while 
it  is  granted  them  to  attract  and  befriend,  they 
never  understand  whither  those  creatures  go.  They 
exist  for  the  purpose  of  sacrificing  themselves  un- 
consciously, and  in  such  sacrifices  they  find  a  happi- 
ness that  might  seem  a  pretty  poor  one  to  others. 
.  .  .  Y'^ou  are  not  saying  a  word.^* 

SALA 

I  am  listening. 

JULIAN 

And  have  no  reply  to  make.'' 


114  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

SALA 

Oh,  well — It  is  possible  to  grind  out  scales  quite 
smoothly  even  when  the  fiddle  has  got  a  crack.  .  .  . 
[It  is  growing  darker.    Felix  appears  on  the  terrace. 

SALA 

Who  is  that? 
FELIX  (on  the  terrace) 

It's  me.     The  servant  told  me  .   .  . 

SALA 

Oh,  Felix  !     Glad  you  came. 
FELIX  {coming  down  into  the  garden) 

Good  evening,  Mr.  von  Sala. — Good  evening,  Mr. 
Fichtner. 

JULIAN 

Good  evening,  Felix. 

SALA 

I  am  delighted  to  see  you. 

FELIX 

What  magnificent  old  trees  ! 

SALA 

Yes,  a  piece  of  real  woods — all  you  have  to  do  is  to 
forget  the  fence. — What  brought  you  anyhow?  I 
didn't  expect  you  until  to-morrow  morning.  Have 
you  really  made  up  your  mind  already? 

JULIAN 

Am  I  in  the  way? 

FELIX 

Oh,  no.     There  is  nothing  secret  about  it. — I  accept 
your  offer,  Mr.  von  Sala,  and  ask  if  you  would  be 
kind  enough  to  speak  to  Count  Ronsky. 
SALA  (shaking  Felix  hy  the  hand) 

I  am  glad  of  it.  ...  (To  Julian)  It  has  to  do  with 
our  Asiatic  venture. 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  115 

JULIAN 

What? — You  intend  to  join  the  expedition? 

FELIX 

Yes. 

SALA 

Have  you  already  talked  it  over  with  your  father? 

FELIX 

I  shall  do  so  to-night. — But  that's  a  mere  formality. 
I  am  determined,  provided  no  other  obstacles  ap- 
pear .  .  . 

SALA 

I  shall  speak  to  the  Count  this  very  day. 

FELIX 

I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you. 

SALA 

There  is  no  reason  at  all.     In  fact,  I  don't  have  to 
say  another  word.     The  Count  knows  everything  he 
needs  to  know  about  you. 
VALET  (appearing  on  the  terrace) 

There  is  a  lady  asking  if  you  are  at  home,  sir. 

SALA 

Didn't  she  give  her  name? — You'll  have  to  excuse 
me  a  moment,  gentlemen.  {He  goes  toward  the 
valet,  and  both  disappear  mto  the  house) 

JULIAN 

You  are  going  away? 

FELIX 

Yes.  And  I  am  very  happy  this  occasion  has  offered 
itself. 

JULIAN 

Have  you  also  informed  yourself  concerning  the  real 
nature  of  this  undertaking? 


116  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

FELIX 

It  means  at  any  rate  genuine  activity  and  the  open- 
ing of  wider  worlds. 

JULIAN 

And  couldn't  those  things  be  found  in  connection 
with  more  hopeful  prospects? 

FELIX 

That's  possible.     But  I  don't  care  to  wait. 
l^Sala  arid  Irene  enter. 
ifiENE  {still  on  the  terrace,  talking  to  Sala) 

I  couldn't  leave  Vienna  without  keeping  my  promise. 

SALA 

And  I  thank  you  for  it,  Miss  Herms. 
IRENE  {descending  into  the  garden  with  Sala) 

You  have  a  wonderful  place  here. — How  do  you  do, 
Julian.'^     Good  evening,  Lieutenant. 

SALA 

You  should  have  come  earlier.  Miss  Herms,  so  that 
you  could  have  seen  it  in  full  sunlight. 

lEENE 

Why,  I  was  here  two  hours  ago.  But  it  was  like  an 
enchanted  castle.  It  was  impossible  to  get  in.  The 
bell  didn't  ring  at  all. 

SALA 

Oh,  of  course !  I  hope  you  pardon.  If  I  had  had  the 
slightest  idea  .   .   . 

IRENE 

Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  have  made  good  use  of 
my  time.  I  went  on  through  the  woods  as  far  as 
Neustift  and  Salmansdorf.^  And  then  I  got  out  and 
followed  a  road  that  I  remembered  since  many  years 

*  Former  villages,  now  suburbs  of  Vienna,  lying  still  nearer  the 
city  limits  than  Dornbach,  where  Sala  is  living. 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  117 

ago.  {She  looks  at  Julian)  I  rested  on  a  bench 
where  I  sat  once  many,  many  years  ago,  with  a  close 
friend.  {Smilingly)  Can  you  guess,  Mr.  Fichtner? 
The  outlook  is  wonderful.  Beyond  the  fields  you 
have  a  perfect  view  of  the  whole  city  as  far  as  the 
Danube. 

BALA  {pointing  to  the  stone  seat) 

Won't  you  sit  down  here  for  a  while.  Miss  Herms? 

lEENE 

Thanks.  {She  raises  her  lorgnette  to  study  the  busts 
of  the  two  emperors)  It  makes  one  feel  quite  Ro- 
man. .  .  .  But  I  hope,  gentlemen,  I  haven't  inter- 
rupted any  conference. 

SALA 

Not  at  all. 

IRENE 

I  have  that  feeling,  however.  All  of  you  look  so  seri- 
ous.— I  think  I'll  rather  leave. 

SALA 

Oh,  you  mustn't,  Miss  Herms. — Is  there  anything 
more  you  want  to  ask  me  about  that  affair  of  ours, 
FcYix? 

FELIX 

If  Miss  Herms  would  pardon  me  for  a  minute  .  .  . 

IRENE 

Oh,  certainly — please ! 

SALA 

You'll  excuse  me,  Miss  Herms  .  .  . 

FELIX 

It  is  a  question  of  what  I  should  do  in  regard  to  my 
present  commission. — {He  is  still  speaking  as  he 
goes  out  with  Sala) 


118  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

IRENE 

What  kind  of  secrets  have  those  two  together? 
What's  going  on  here  anyhow? 

JULIAN 

Nothing  that  can  be  called  a  secret.     That  young 

fellow  is  also  going  to  join  the  expedition,  I  hear. 

And  so  they  have  a  lot  of  things  to  talk  over,  of 

course. 
IRENE   {who  has   been  following  Felix  and  Sala  with 

her  eyes)    Julian — it's  he. 
JULIAN  {remains  silent) 

IRENE 

You  don't  need  to  answer  me.  The  matter  has  been 
in  my  mind  all  the  time.  .  .  ,  The  only  thing  I  can't 
understand  is  why  I  haven't  discovered  it  before.  It 
is  he. — And  he  is  twenty-three. — And  I  who  actually 
thought  when  you  drove  me  away :  if  only  he  doesn't 
kill  himself!  .   .   .  And  there  goes  his  son. 

JULIAN 

What  does  that  help  me?    He  doesn't  belong  to  me. 

IRENE 

But  look  at  him!  He  is  there — he's  alive,  and 
young,  and  handsome,  Lsn't  that  enough?  {She 
rises)    And  I  who  was  ruined  by  it! 

JULIAN 

How? 

IRENE 

Do  you  understand  ?    Ruined  .  .  . 

JULIAN 

I  have  never  suspected  it. 

IRENE 

Well,  you  couldn't  have  helped  me  anyhow.  {Pause) 
Good-by.     Make  an  excuse  for  me,  please.   Tell  them 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  119 

anything  you  want.  I  am  going  away,  and  I  don't 
want  to  know  anytliing  more. 

JULIAN 

What's  the  matter  with  you?     Nothing  has  changed. 

lEENE 

You  think  so.'' — To  mc  it  is  as  if  all  these  twenty- 
three  years  had  suddenly  undergone  a  complete 
change. — Good-by. 

JULIAN 

Good-by — for  a  while. 

IRENE 

For  a  while.''  Do  you  care? — Really.'' — Do  you  feel 
sad,  Julian? — Now  I  am  sorry  for  you  again. 
{Shaking  her  head)  Of  course,  that's  the  way  you 
are.     So  what  is  there  to  do  about  it? 

JULIAN 

Please  control  yourself.     Here  they  are  coming. 

SALA  (returns  with  Felia:) 
Now  we're  all  done. 

FELIX 

Thank  you  very  much.     I  shall  have  to  leave  now. 

IRENE 

And  to-morrow  you  are  already  going  away  again? 

FELIX 

Yes,  Miss  Herms. 

IRENE 

You're  also  going  toward  the  city  now.  Lieutenant, 
are  you  not?  If  you  don't  object,  I'll  take  you 
along. 

FELIX 

That's  awfully  kind  of  you. 


120  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

SALA 

What,  Miss  Herms  .  .  .  ?  This  is  a  short  visit  in- 
deed. 

IRENE 

Yes,  I  have  still  a  few  errands  to  do.  For  to-mor- 
row I  must  return  to  the  wilderness.  And  probably 
it  will  be  some  time  before  I  get  to  Vienna  again. — 
Well,  Lieutenant? 

FELIX 

Good-by,  Mr.  Fichtner.  And  if  I  shouldn't  happen 
to  see  you  again  .  .  . 

JULIAN 

Oh,  we'll  meet  again. 

IRENE 

Now  the  people  will  say:  look  at  the  lieutenant  with 
his  mamma  in  tow.  {She  gives  a  last  glance  to 
Julian) 

SALA  (accompanies  Irene  and  Felix  up  the  steps  to  the 
terrace) 

JULIAN  {remains  behind,  walking' back  and  forth;  after 
a  while  he  is  joined  by  Sala)  Have  you  no  doubt 
that  your  appeal  to  Count  Ronsky  will  be  effective? 

SALA 

I  have  already  received  definite  assurances  from 
him,  or  1  should  never  have  aroused  any  hopes  in 
Felix. 

JULIAN 

What  caused  you  to  do  this,  Sala? 

SALA 

My  sympathy  for  Felix,  I  should  say,  and  the  fact 
that  I  like  to  travel  in  pleasant  company. 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  121 

JULIAN 

And  did  it  never  occur  to  you,  that  the  thouglit  of 
losing  him  might  be  very  painful  to  me? 

SALA 

What's  the  use  of  that,  Julian?  It  is  only  possible 
to  lose  what  you  possess.  And  you  cannot  possess 
a  thing  to  which  you  have  not  acquired  any  right. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 

JULIAN 

Does  not,  in  the  last  instance,  the  fact  that  you  need 
somebody  give  3'ou  a  certain  claim  on  him? — Can't 
you  understand,  Sala,  that  he  represents  my  last 
hope  ?  .  .  .  That  actually  I  haven't  got  anything  or 
anybody  left  but  him?  .  .  .  That  wherever  I  turn, 
I  find  nothing  but  emptiness?  .  .  .  That  I  am  hor- 
rified by  the  loneliness  awaiting  me? 

SALA 

And  what  could  it  help  you  if  he  stayed?  And  even 
if  he  felt  something  like  filial  tenderness  toward  you, 
how  could  that  help  you?  .  .  .  How  can  he  or  any- 
body else  help  you?  .  .  .  You  say  that  loneliness 
horrifies  you?  .  .  .  And  if  you  had  a  wife  by  your 
side  to-day,  wouldn't  you  be  lonely  just  the  same? 
.  .  .  Wouldn't  you  be  lonely  even  if  you  were  sur- 
rounded by  children  and  grandchildren?  .  .  .  Sup- 
pose you  had  kept  ^our  money,  your  fame  and 
your  genius — don't  you  think  you  would  be  lonely 
for  all  that?  .  .  .  Suppose  we  were  always  attended 
by  a  train  of  bacchantes — nevertheless  we  should 
have  to  tread  the  downward  path  alone — we,  who 
have  never  belonged  to  anybody  ourselves.  The 
process  of  aging  must  needs  be  a  lonely  one  for  our 
kind,  and  he  is  nothing  but  a  fool  who  doesn't  in 


122  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

time  prepare  himself  against  having  to  rely  on  any 
human  being. 

JULIAN 

And  do  you  imagine,  Sala,  that  you  need  no  human 
being? 

SALA 

In  the  manner  I  have  used  them  they  will  always  be 
at  my  disposal.  I  have  always  been  in  favor  of 
keeping  at  a  certain  distance.  It  is  not  my  fault 
that  other  people  haven't  realized  it. 

JULIAN 

In  that  respect  you  are  right,  Sala.  For  you  have 
never  really  loved  anybody  in  this  world. 

SALA 

Perhaps  not.  And  how  about  you.'^  No  more  than 
I,  Julian.  .  .  .  To  love  means  to  live  for  the  sake 
of  somebody  else.  I  don't  say  that  it  is  a  more  de- 
sirable form  of  existence,  but  I  do  think,  at  any  rate, 
that  you  and  I  have  been  pretty  far  removed  from 
it.  What  has  that  which  one  like  us  brings  into  the 
world  got  to  do  with  love.''  Though  it  include  all 
sorts  of  funny,  hypocritical,  tender,  unworthy,  pas- 
sionate things  that  pose  as  love — it  isn't  love  for 
all  that.  .  .  .  Have  we  ever  made  a  sacrifice  by 
which  our  sensuality  or  our  vanity  didn't  profit.? 
.  .  .  Have  we  ever  hesitated  to  betray  or  black- 
guard decent  people,  if  by  doing  so  we  could  gain 
an  hour  of  happiness  or  of  mere  lust.''  .  .  .  Have  we 
ever  risked  our  peace  or  our  lives — not  out  of  whim 
or  recklessness — but  to  promote  the  welfare  of 
someone  who  had  given  all  to  us.''  .  .  .  Have  we 
ever  denied  ourselves  an  enjoyment  unless  from  such 
denial  we  could  at  least  derive  some  comfort.?  .  .   . 


ACT  iv]  THE  LONELY  WAY  123 

And  do  you  think  that  we  could  dare  to  turn  to  any 
human  being,  man  or  woman,  with  a  demand  that 
any  gift  of  ours  be  returned?  I  am  not  thinking 
of  pearls  now,  or  annuities,  or  cheap  wisdom,  but 
of  some  piece  of  our  real  selves,  some  hour  of  our 
own  existence,  which  we  have  surrendered  to  such  a 
being  without  at  once  exacting  payment  for  it  in 
some  sort  of  coin.  My  dear  Julian,  we  have  kept 
our  doors  open,  and  have  allowed  our  treasures  to 
be  viewed — but  prodigal  with  them  we  have  never 
been.  You  no  more  than  I.  We  may  just  as  well  join 
hands,  Julian.  I  am  a  little  less  prone  to  complain 
than  you  are — that's  the  whole  difference.  .  .  .  But 
I  am  not  telling  you  anything  new.  All  this  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do.  It  is  simply  impossible  for  us 
not  to  know  ourselves.  Of  course,  we  try  at  times 
conscientiously  to  deceive  ourselves,  but  it  never 
works.  Our  follies  and  rascalities  may  remain  hid- 
den to  others — but  never  to  ourselves.  In  our  inner- 
most souls  we  always  know  what  to  think  of  our- 
selves.— It's  getting  cold,  Julian.  Let's  go  indoors. 
{They  begin  to  ascend  the  steps  to  the  terrace) 

JULIAN 

All  that  may  be  true,  Sala.  But  this  much  you  have 
to  grant  me.  If  there  be  anybody  in  the  world  who 
has  no  right  to  make  us  pay  for  the  mistakes  of  our 
lives,  it  is  a  person  who  has  us  to  thank  for  his  own 
life. 

SALA 

There  is  no  question  of  payment  in  this.  Your  son 
has  a  mind  for  essentials,  Julian.  You  have  said  so 
yourself.     And  he  feels  that  to  have  done  nothing 


124  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  iv 

for  a  man  but  to  put  him  into  the  world,  is  to  have 
done  verj  little  indeed. 

JULIAN 

Then,  at  least,  everything  must  become  as  it  was 
before  he  knew  anything  at  all.  Once  more  I  shall 
become  to  him  a  human  being  like  anybody  else. 
Then  he  will  not  dare  to  leave  me.  ...  I  cannot 
bear  it.  How  have  I  deserved  that  he  should  run 
away  from  me."^  .  .  .  And  even  if  all  that  I  have  held 
for  good  and  true  within  myself — even  if,  in  the  end, 
my  very  fondness  for  this  young  man,  who  is  my  son 
— should  prove  nothing  but  self-delusion — yet  I  love 
him  now.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand  me,  Sala.^*  I  love 
him,  and  all  I  ask  is  that  he  may  believe  it  before 
I  must  lose  him  forever.   .   .   . 

[/^  grows  dark.  The  two  men  pass  across  the  ter- 
race and  enter  the  drawing-room.  The  stage  stands 
empty  a  little  while.  In  the  meantime  the  wind  has 
risen  somewhat.  Johanna  enters  hy  the  avenue  of 
trees  from  the  right  and  goes  past  the  pool  toward 
the  terrace.  The  windows  of  the  drawing-room  are 
illumined.  Sala  has  seated  himself  at  a  table.  The 
valet  enters  the  room  and  serves  him  a  glass  of  wine. 
Johanna  stops.  She  is  apparently  much  excited. 
Then  she  ascends  two  of  the  steps  to  the  terrace. 
Sala  seems  to  hear  a  noise  and  turns  his  head 
slightly.  When  she  sees  this,  Johanna  hurries  down 
again  and  stops  beside  the  pool.  There  she  stands 
looking  down  into  the  water. 

CURTAIN 


THE    FIFTH    ACT 

The  garden  at  the  Wegrats\ 

REUMANN  {sits  at  a  small  tabic  and  writes  something 

in  his  notebook) 
JULIAN  {enters  quickly  by  way  of  the  veranda) 

Is  it  true,  Doctor? 
REUMANN   {risi/ng) 

Yes,  it's  true. 

JULIAN 

She  has  disappeared? 

REUMANN 

Yes,  she  has  disappeared.  She  has  been  gone  since 
yesterday  afternoon.  She  has  left  no  word  behind, 
and  she  has  taken  nothing  at  all  with  her — she  has 
simply  gone  away  and  never  returned. 

JULIAN 

But  what  can  have  happened  to  her? 

REUMANN 

We  have  not  been  able  to  guess  even.  Perhaps  she 
has  lost  her  way  and  will  come  back.  Or  she  has 
suddenly  made  up  her  mind — if  we  only  knew  to 
what! 

JULIAN 

Where  are  the  others? 

REUMANN 

We  agreed  to  meet  here  again  at  ten.  I  visited  the 
various   hospitals   and  other  places  where  it  might 


126  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  v 

be  possible  to  find  some  trace.   ...  I  suppose  the 
professor  has  made  a  report  to  the  police  by  this 
time. 
FELIX  (enters  quickie/) 
Nothing  new.'' 

BEUMANN 

Nothing. 
JULIAN  {shakes  hands  with  Felix) 

REUMANN 

From  where  do  you  come.'' 

FELIX 

I  went  to  see  Mr.  von  Sala. 

REUMANN 

Why.? 

FELIX 

I  thought  it  rather  possible  that  he  might  have  a 
suspicion,  or  be  able  to  give  us  some  kind  of  direc- 
tion. But  he  knows  nothing  at  all.  That  wa^  per- 
fectly clear.  And  if  he  had  known  anything — had 
known  anything  definite — he  would  have  told  me.  I 
am  sure  of  that.  He  was  still  in  bed  when  I  called 
on  him.  I  suppose  he  thought  I  had  come  about  my 
own  matter.  When  he  heard  that  Johanna  had  dis- 
appeared, he  turned  very  pale.  .  .  .  But  he  doesn't 
know  anything. 

WEGRAT  {enters) 
Anything.? 

\^All  the  others  shake  their  heads.  Julian  presses 
his  hand. 

WEGRAT  {sittvng  down) 

They  asked  me  to  give  more  details,  something  more 
tangible  to  go  by.  But  what  is  there  to  give.?  .  .  . 
I  have  nothing.   .   .  .  The  whole  thing  is  a  riddle  to 


ACT  v]  THE  LONELY  WAY  127 

me.  (Turning  to  Julian)  In  the  afternoon  she 
went  out  for  a  short  walk  as  usual.  .  .  .  {To  Fe- 
lix) Was  there  anything  about  her  that  attracted 
attention.''  ...  It  seems  quite  impossible  to  me  that 
she  could  have  had  anything  in  mind  when  she  left 
the  house — that  she  could  know  already — that  she 
was  going  away  forever. 

FELIX 

Perhaps  though  .   .   . 

WEGRAT 

Of  course,  she  was  very  reserved — especially  of  late, 
since  the  death  of  her  mother.  ...  I  wonder  if  it 
could  be  that?  .   .   .  Would  you  think  that  possible, 
Doctor? 
REUMANN  (shrugs  his  shoulders) 

FELIX 

Did  any  one  of  us  really  know  her?  And  who  takes 
a  real  interest  in  another  person  anyhow? 

REUMANN 

It  is  apparently  fortunate  that  such  is  the  case. 
Otherwise  we  should  all  go  mad  from  pity  or  loath- 
ing or  anxiety.  (Pause)  Now  I  must  get  around  to 
my  patients.  There  are  a  few  calls  that  cannot  be 
postponed.  I  shall  be  back  by  dinner-time.  Good-by 
for  a  while.     (He  goes  out) 

WEGRAT 

To  think  that  you  can  watch  a  young  creature  like 
her  grow  up — can  see  the  child  turn  into  girl,  and 
then  into  a  young  lady — can  speak  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  words  to  her.  .  .  .  And  one  day  she 
rises  from  the  table,  puts  on  hat  and  coat,  and  goes 
.  .  .  and  you  have  no  idea  as  to  whether  she  has 
slipped  away — if  into  nothingness  or  into  a  new  life. 


128  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  v 

FELIX 

But  whatever  may  have  happened,  father — she 
wanted  to  get  away  from  us.  And  in  that  fact,  I 
think,  we  should  find  a  certain  consolation. 

WEGRAT  (shakes  his  head  in  perplexity) 

Everything  is  fluttering  away — willingly  or  unwill- 
ingly— but  away  it  goes. 

FELIX 

Father,  we  can't  tell  what  may  have  happened.  It's 
conceivable,  at  least,  that  Johanna  may  have  formed 
some  decision  which  she  does  not  carry  out.  Per- 
haps she  will  come  back  in  a  few  hours,  or  days. 

WEGRAT 

You  believe  .   .   .  you  think  it  possible,  do  you? 

FELIX 

Possible — yes.  But  if  she  shouldn't  come — of 
course,  father,  I  shall  give  up  the  plan  of  which  I 
told  you  yesterday.  Under  circumstances  like  these 
I  couldn't  think  of  going  so  far  away  from  you  for 
such  a  long  time. 
WEGRAT  (to  Julian) 

And  now  he's  going  to  sacrifice  himself  for  my  sake ! 

FELIX 

Perhaps  I  could  arrange  to  have  myself  transferred 
here. 

WEGRAT 

No,  Felix,  you  know  very  well  that  I  couldn't  accept 
such  a  thing. 

FELIX 

But  it's  no  sacrifice.  I  assure  you,  father,  that  I 
stay  with  you  only  because  I  can't  go  away  from 
you  now. 


ACT  v]  THE  LONELY  WAY  129 

WEGRAT 

Oh,  yes,  Felix,  you  can — you  will  be  able.  And  you 
are  not  to  stay  here  for  my  sake — 3'ou  mustn't.  I 
could  never  be  sure  that  it  would  prove  of  any  help 
to  me  to  have  you  give  up  a  plan  which  you  have 
taken  liold  of  with  such  enthusiasm.  I  think  it 
would  be  inexcusable  of  you  to  draw  back,  and 
wicked  of  me  to  permit  it.  You  must  be  happy  at 
having  found  a  way  at  last,  by  which  3'ou  may  reach 
all  you  have  longed  for.  It  makes  me  happ^',  too, 
Felix.  If  3'ou  missed  this  opportunity,  you  would 
regret  it  all  your  life. 

FELIX 

But  so  much  may  have  changed  since  3'esterday — 
such  a  tremendous  lot — for  you  and  for  me. 

WEGRAT 

For  me,  perhaps.  .  .  .  But  never  mind.  I  won't 
stand  it — I  will  not  accept  such  a  sacrifice.  Of 
course,  I  might  accept  it,  if  I  could  find  it  of  any 
special  advantage  to  myself.  But  I  shouldn't  have 
you  any  more  than  if  you  were  gone  away  .  .  . 
less  .  .  .  not  at  all.  This  fate  that  has  descended 
on  us  must  not  add  to  its  inherent  power  what  is 
still  worse — that  it  makes  us  do  in  our  confusion 
what  is  against  our  own  natures.  Sometime  we  al- 
ways get  over  every  disaster,  no  matter  how  fright- 
ful it  be.  But  whatever  we  do  in  violation  of  our 
innermost  selves  can  never  be  undone.  (Turning  to 
Julian)    Isn't  that  true,  Julian.'* 

JULIAN 

You  are  absolutely  right. 


130  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  v 

FELIX 

Thanks,  father.  I  feel  grateful  that  you  make  it 
so  easy  for  me  to  agree  with  you. 

WEGKAT 

That's  good,  Felix.  .  .  .  During  the  weeks  you  will 
remain  in  Europe  we  shall  be  able  to  talk  over  a 
lot  of  things — more  perhaps  than  in  the  years  gone 
by.  Indeed,  how  little  people  know  about  each 
other!  .  .  .  But  I  am  getting  tired.  We  stayed 
awake  all  night. 

FELIX 

Won't  you  rest  a  while,  father.? 

WEGRAT 

Rest.   .   .  .  You'll  stay  at  home,  Felix,  won't  you? 

FELIX 

Yes,  I  shall  wait  right  here.  What  else  is  there  to 
do.? 

WEGRAT 

I'm  racking  my  brain  until  it's  near  bursting.  .  .  . 
Why  didn't  she  say  anything  to  me?  Why  have  I 
known  so  little  about  her?  Why  have  I  kept  so  far 
away  from  her?      {He  goes  out) 

FELIX 

How  that  man  has  been  belied — all  his  life  long — 
by  all  of  us. 

JULIAN 

There  is  in  this  world  no  sin,  no  crime,  no  deception, 
that  cannot  be  atoned.  Only  for  what  has  happened 
here,  there  should  be  no  expiation  and  no  forgetful- 
ness,  you  think? 

FELIX 

Can  it  be  possible  that  you  don't  understand?  .  .  . 
Here  a  lie  has  been  eternalized.     There  is  no  getting 


ACT  v]  THE  LONELY  WAY  131 

away  from  it.  And  she  who  did  it  was  my  mother — 
and  it  was  you  who  made  her  do  it — and  the  lie  am 
I,  and  such  1  must  remain  as  long  as  I  am  passing 
for  that  which  I  am  not. 

JULIAN 

Let  us  proclaim  the  truth  then,  Felix. — I  shall  face 
any  judge  that  you  may  choose,  and  submit  to  any 
verdict  passed  on  me. — ]\fust  I  alone  remain  con- 
demned forever  .P  Should  I  alone,  among  all  that 
have  erred,  never  dare  to  say :     "It  is  atoned" .? 

FELIX 

It  is  too  late.  Guilt  can  be  wiped  out  by  confession 
only  while  the  guilty  one  is  still  able  to  make  restitu- 
tion. You  ought  to  know  yourself,  that  this  respite 
expired  long  ago. 

SALA  (enters) 

FELIX 

Mr.  von  Sala ! — Have  you  anything  to  tell  us  ? 

SALA 

Yes. — Good  morning,  Julian. — No,  stay,  Julian.  I 
am  glad  to  have  a  witness.  (To  Felix)  Are  you 
determined  to  join  the  expedition.'' 

FELIX 

I  am. 

SALA 

So  am  I.  But  it  is  possible  that  one  of  us  must 
change  his  mind. 

FELIX 

Mr.  von  Sala  .  .  .    ? 

SALA 

It  would  be  a  bad  thing  to  risk  finding  out  that  you 
have  started  on  a  journey  of  such  scope  with  one 


132  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  v 

whom  you  would  prefer  to  shoot  dead  if  you  knew 
him  completely. 

FELIX 

Where  is  my  sister,  Mr.  von  Sala.'' 

SALA 

I  don't  know.  Where  she  is  at  this  moment,  I  don't 
know.  But  last  evening,  just  before  you  arrived, 
she  had  left  me  for  the  last  time. 

FELIX 

JVIr.  von  Sala  .   .   . 

SALA 

Her  farewell  words  to  me  were:  Until  to-morrow. 
You  can  see  that  I  had  every  reason  to  be  surprised 
this  morning,  when  you  appeared  at  my  house.  Per- 
mit me  furthermore  to  tell  you,  that  yesterday,  of 
all  days,  I  asked  Johanna  to  become  my  wife — which 
seemed  to  agitate  her  very  much.  In  telling  you 
this,  I  have  by  no  means  the  intention  of  smoothing 
over  things.  For  my  question  implied  no  desire  on 
my  part  to  make  good  any  wrong  I  might  have  done. 
It  was  apparently  nothing  but  a  whim — like  so  much 
else.  There  is  here  no  question  of  anything  but  to 
let  you  know  the  truth.  This  means  that  I  am  at 
your  disposal  in  any  manner  you  may  choose. — 
I  thought  it  absolutely  necessary  to  say  all  this  be- 
fore we  were  brought  to  the  point  of  having  to  de- 
scend into  the  depths  of  the  earth  together,  or,  per- 
haps, to  sleep  in  the  same  tent. 
FELIX  (after  a  long  pause) 

Mr.  von  Sala  ...  we  shall  not  have  to  sleep  in  the 
same  tent. 

SALA 

Why  not? 


ACT  v]  THE  LONELY  WAY  133 

FELIX 

Your  journey  will  not  last  that  long. 
[A  very  long  paiise  ensices. 

SALA 

Oh  ...  I  understand.     And  are  you  sure  of  that.-* 

FELIX 

Perfectl}'.      (Pause) 

SALA 

And  did  Johanna  know  it? 

FELIX 

Yes. 

SALA 

I   thank  you. — Oh,   you   can   safely   take  my  hand. 
The  matter  has  been  settled  in  the  most  chivalrous 
manner  possible. — Well?   ...  It  is   not  customary 
to  refuse  one's  hand  to  him  who  is  already  down. 
FELIX   (gives  his  hand  to  Sola;   then  he  says) 
And  where  can  she  be.'' 

SALA 

I  don't  know. 

FELIX 

Didn't  she  give  you  any  hint  at  all.? 

SALA 

None  whatever. 

FELIX 

But  have  you  no  conjecture?  Has  she  perhaps  es- 
tablished any  connections — abroad?  Had  she  any 
friends  at  all,  of  which  I  don't  know? 

SALA 

Not  to  my  knowledge. 

FELIX 

Do  you  think  that  she  is  still  alive? 


134.  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  v 

SALA 

I  can't  tell. 

FELDC 

Are  you  not  willing  to  say  anything  more,  Mr.  von 
Sala? 

SALA 

I  am  not  able  to  say  anything  more.  I  have  noth- 
ing left  to  say.  Farewell,  and  good  luck  on  your 
trip.     Give  my  regards  to  Count  Ronsky. 

FELDC 

But  we  are  not  seeing  each  other  for  the  last  time.? 

SALA 

Who  can  tell? 
FELIX  {holding  out  his  hand  to  Sala) 

I  must  hurry  to  my  father.     I  think  it  my  duty  to 

let  him  know  what  I  have  just  learned  from  you. 
SALA  (nods) 
FELIX  {to  Julian) 

Good-by.     {He  goes  out) 

[^Julian  and  Sala  start  to  leave  together, 
JULIAN  {as  Sala  suddenly  stops) 

Why  do  you  tarry.?     Let's  get  away. 

SALA 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  know.  A  veil  seems  to 
spread  in  front  of  everything.  .  .  .  "Away  with 
you !" — But  I  don't  care  to  submit  to  it  as  long  as 
I  am  still  here — if  it  be  only  for  another  hour  .   .  . 

JULIAN 

Do  you  believe  it  then? 
SALA  {looking  long  at  Julian) 

Do  I  believe  it  .  .  .  ?  He  behaved  rather  nicely, 
that  son  of  yours.   .   .   .  "We  shall  not  have  to  sleep 


ACT  v]  THE  LONELY  WAY  135 

in  the  same  tent."  ,  .  .  Not  bad !  I  might  have  said 
it  myself.  .  .  . 

JULIAN 

But  why  don't  you  come?  Have  you  perhaps  some- 
thing more  to  tell  after  all? 

SAT- A 

That's  the  question  I  must  put  to  you,  Julian. 

JULIAN 

Sala  ? 

SALA 

Because  I  didn't  say  anything  about  a  peculiar  hal- 
lucination I  experienced  just  before  coming  here.  I 
imagine  it  was  ... 

JULIAN 

Please,  speak  out! 

SALA 

What  do  you  think  of  it?  Before  I  left  my  house — 
just  after  Felix  had  gone — I  went  down  into  my 
garden — that  is  to  say,  I  ran  through  it — in  a  re- 
markable state  of  excitement,  as  you  may  under- 
stand. And  as  I  passed  by  the  pool,  it  was  exactly 
as  if  I  had  seen  on  the  bottom  of  it  .  .  . 

JULIAN 

Sala! 

SALA 

There  is  a  blue-greenish  glitter  on  the  water,  and  be- 
sides, the  shadow  of  the  beech  tree  falls  right  across 
it  early  in  the  morning.  And  by  a  strange  coinci- 
dence Johanna  said  yesterday:  "The  water  can  no 
more  hold  my  image  ..."  That  was,  in  a  way, 
like  challenging  fate.  .  .  .  And  as  I  passed  by  the 
pool,  it  was  as  if  .  .  .  the  water  had  retained  her 
image  just  the  same. 


136  THE  LONELY  WAY  [act  v 

JULIAN 

Is  that  true? 

SAI.A 

True  ...  or  untrue  .  .  .  what  is  that  to  me?  It 
could  be  of  interest  to  me  only  if  I  were  to  remain 
in  this  world  another  year — or  another  hour  at 
least. 

JULIAN 

You  mean  to  ...    ? 

SALA 

Of  course,  I  do.  Would  you  expect  me  to  wait  for 
it?  That  would  be  rather  painful,  I  think.  (To 
Julian,  with  a  smile)  From  whom  are  you  now  go- 
ing to  get  your  cues,  my  dear  friend?  Yes,  it's  all 
over  now.  .  .  .  And  what  has  become  of  it?  .  .  . 
Where  are  the  thermae  of  Caracalla?  Where  is  the 
park  at  Lugano?  .  .  .  Where  is  my  nice  little 
house?  .  .  .  No  nearer  to  me,  and  no  farther  away, 
than  those  marble  steps  leading  down  to  mysterious 
depths.  .  .  .  Veils  in  front  of  everything.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  your  son  will  discover  if  the  three-hundred 
and  twelfth  be  the  last  one — and  if  not,  it  won't  give 
him  much  concern  anyhow.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  he 
has  been  acting  rather  nicely?  ...  I  have  some- 
how the  impression  that  a  better  generation  is  grow- 
ing up — with  more  poise  and  less  brilliancy. — Send 
your  regards  to  heaven,  Julian. 

JULIAN  {makes  a  movement  to  accompany  him) 

SALA  (gently  but  firmly) 

You  stay  here,  Julian.     This  is  the  end  of  our  dia- 
logue.    Farewell.     {He  goes  out  quickly) 


ACT  v]  THE  LONELY  WAY  137 

FELIX  (entering  rapidly) 

Is  Mr.  von  Sala  gone?  My  father  wanted  to  talk  to 
him. — And  you  are  still  here?  .  .  .  Wliy  did  Mr. 
von  Sala  go.'*  What  did  he  tell  you.'' — Jo- 
hanna .   .   .    !     Johanna  ....'* 

JULIAN 

She  is  dead  .   .   .   she  has  drowned  herself  in  the  pool. 
FELIX  {with  a  cry  of  dismay) 
Where  did  he  go.'' 

JULIAN 

I  don't  think  you  can  find  him. 

FELIX 

What  is  he  doing.'* 

JULIAN 

He  is  paying  .   .   .  while  it's  time  .  .   . 
WEGEAT  {enters  from  the  veranda) 
FELIX  {runs  to  meet  him) 

Father  .  .  . 

WEGRAT 

Felix !    W^hat  has  happened  ? 

FELIX 

We  must  go  to  Sala's  house,  father. 

WEGRAT 

Dead  .   .   .    ? 

FELIX 

Father!      {He   tal-cs   hold   of    Wegrat's   hand  and 
kisses  it )     My  father ! 
JULIAN  {has  left  the  room  slowly  in  the  meantime) 

WEGRAT 

Must  things  of  this  kind  happen  to  make  that  word 
sound  as  if  I  had  heard  it  for  the  first  time  .  .  .    ? 

CURTAIN 


INTERMEZZO 

( Zwischenspiel ) 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 

1904 


PERSONS 

Amadeus  Adams A  musical  conductor 

Cecilia  Adams-Ortenburg  .  His  wife,  an  opera  singer 

Peter Tlieir  child,  five  years  old 

Albert  Rhon 

Marie His  wife 

SiGisMUND,  Prince  Mabadas-Lohsenstein 

Countess  Fbedebique  Moosheim     .     An  opera  singer 

I At  the  Adamses 

Chambermaid        J 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Vienna  at  the  present  day. 


INTERMEZZO 


THE    FIRST    ACT 

The  study  of  Amadeus.  The  walls  are  painted  in 
dark  gray,  with  a  very  simple  frieze.  A  door  in  the 
background  leads  to  a  veranda.  On  either  side  of  this 
door  is  a  window.  Through  the  door  one  sees  the  gar- 
den, to  which  three  steps  lead  down  from  the  veranda. 
A  cabinet  stands  between  the  door  and  the  window  at 
the  right;  a  music-stand  holds  a  corresponding  posi- 
tion to  the  left  of  the  door.  Antique  bas-reliefs  are 
hung  above  the  cabinet  as  well  as  the  stand.  The  main 
entrance  is  on  the  right  side  in  the  foreground.  Far- 
ther back  at  the  right  is  a  door  leading  to  Cecilia's 
room.  A  door  finished  like  the  rest  of  the  zvall  leads 
to  the  room  of  Amadeus  at  the  left.  A  tall  book  case, 
with  a  bust  of  Verrochio  on  top  of  it,  stands  a(fainst 
the  right  wall.  In  the  corner  back  of  it  are  several 
cohimns  with  tall  vases  full  of  fozvers.  A  fireplace 
occupies  the  foreground  at  the  left.  Above  it  is  a 
large  mirror.  On  the  mantelshelf  stands  a  French 
clock  of  simple  design.  A  table  surrounded  by  chairs 
is  placed  in  front  of  the  fireplace.  Farther  back  along 
the  same  wall  are  shelves  piled  with  sheet  music,  and 
above  them  engravings  of  Schumann,  Brahms,  Mozart, 
and  other  composers.     A  bust  of  Beethoven  occupies 


142  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

the  farthermost  corner  at  the  left.  Halfway  down  the 
stage,  nearer  the  left  wall,  stands  a  piano  with  a  piano 
stool  in  front  of  it.  An  armchair  has  been  moved  up 
close  to  the  piano  on  the  side  toward  the  p^iblic.  A 
writing  desk  holds  a  similar  position  at  the  right. 
Back  of  it  are  an  easy-chair  and  a  couch,  the  latter 
having  been  moved  close  to  the  table. 

AMADEUS  {thirty  years  old,  slender,  with  dark,  smooth 
hair;  his  movements  are  quick,  with  a  suggestion  of 
restlessness;  he  wears  a  gray  business  suit  of  ele- 
gant cut,  but  not  well  cared  for;  he  has  a  trick  of 
taking  hold  of  the  lapel  of  his  sack  coat  with  his  left 
hand  and  turning  it  back;  he  is  seated  at  the  piano, 
accompanying  Frederique) 

FREDERiQUE  {tweuty- eight,  is  dressed  in  a  bright  gray 
tailor-made  suit  and  a  red  satin  waist;  wears  a 
broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  very  fashionable;  her  hair 
is  blonde,  of  a  reddish  tint;  her  whole  appearance 
is  very  dainty;  she  is  singing  an  aria  from  the  opera 
"Mig7ion")  "Ha-ha-ha!  Is  't  true,  really  true?" 
(  While  singing  she  is  all  the  time  making  a  motion 
as  if  she  were  beating  the  dust  out  of  her  riding  suit 
with  a  crop) 

AMADEUS  (accompanying  himself  as  he  gives  her  the 
cue)  "Yes,  you  may  laugh.  I  am  a  fool  to  ruin  my 
horse  ..." 

FEEDEEIQUE 

"Maybe  you  would  like  ..." 
AMADEUS  (nervously) 

Oh,  wait !  .  .  .  You  don't  know  yet  why  I  have 
ruined  my  horse.  .  .  .  "To  ruin  my  horse  for  a 
quicker  sight  of  you  ..." 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  143 

FREDERiQUE  (witJi  the  samc  gesture  as  before) 
"Maybe  you  would  like  me  to  weep?" 

AMADEUS 

"Oh,  I  regret  already  that  I  came." 
FEEDERiQUE  (us  before) 
"Well,  why  ..." 

AMADEUS 

G  sharp ! 
FREDERiQUE  (os  before) 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go  back  ?  Soon  enough  I  shall 
see  you  again." 

AMADEUS 

You  should  say  that  ironically,  not  tenderly.     "Soon 
enough  I  shall  see  you  again  ..." 
FREDERIQUE  (os  before) 

"Soon  enough  I  shall  see  you  again  ..." 

AMADEUS 

Not  angrily,  Countess,  but  ironically. 

FREDERIQUE 

Call  me  Frederique,  and  not  Countess,  when  you  are 
working  with  me. 

AMADEUS 

Now,  that's  the  tone  Philine  should  use.  Hold  on 
to  it.  .  .  .  And  that's  the  right  look,  too.  ...  If 
you  could  do  that  on  the  stage,  you  might  almost  be 
an  artist. 

FREDERIQUE 

Oh,  mercy,  I  have  sung  Philine  more  than  twenty 
times  already. 

AMADEUS 

But  not  here,  Freder  .  .  .  Countess.  And  not  when 
Mrs.    Adams-Ortenburg    was    singing    the    part    of 


144  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

Mignon.  (He  leans  forward  so  that  he  can  look  out 
into  the  garden) 

FKEDERIQUE 

No,  she  isn't  coming  yet.     (With  a  smile)     Perhaps 
the  rehearsal  isn't  over. 
AMADEUs  (rising) 
Perhaps  not. 

FREDEIIIQUE 

Is  it  true  that  Mrs.  Adams-Ortenburg  has  been  re- 
quested to  sing  in  Berlin  next  Fall? 

AMADEUS 

Nothing  has  been  settled  yet.  (He  goes  to  the  win- 
dow at  the  right)  If  you'll  permit  .  .  .  (Opens 
the  window) 

FEEDERIQUE 

What  a  splendid  day!  And  how  fragrant  the  roses 
are.     It  is  almost  like  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

Almost  like  Tremezzo — yes,  T  know. 

FEEDERIQUE 

How  can  you — as  you  have  never  been  there? 

AMADEUS 

But  you  have  told  me  enough  about  it.  A  villa 
standing  at  the  edge  of  the  water — radiantly  white 
— with  marble  steps  leading  straight  down  to  the 
blue  sea. 

FEEDERIQUE 

Yes.  And  sometimes,  on  very  hot  nights,  I  sleep  in 
the  park,  right  on  the  sward,  under  a  plane  tree. 

AMADEUS 

That  plane  tree  is  famous. — But  time  is  flying.  It 
would  be  better  to  go  on  with  the  singing.  (He 
seats  himself  at  the  piano  again)     The  polonaise — 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  145 


if  you  please,  Countess.  (He  begins  the  accompani- 
ment) 

FREDEBiQiTE  (singing) 

"Titania,  airiest  queen  of  fairies, 

Has  descended  from  her  blue  cloud  throne. 

And  her  way  across  the  world  is  wending 

More  quickly  than  the  bird  or  lightning  flash  ..." 

AMADETTs  (interrupts  his  playing  and  lets  his  head  sink 
forward)  No,  no — it's  no  use!  .  .  .  Please  tell  the 
director  that  he  will  have  to  look  after  your  part 
himself.  As  for  me,  I  have  certain  regards  even 
for  people  who  go  to  the  opera  in  Summer.  They 
should  not  be  forced  to  accept  anything.  Tell  the 
director,  please,  that  I  send  him  my  regards  and 
that — there  are  more  important  things  to  occupy 
my  time.     (He  closes  the  score) 

FREDERiQUE  (quitc  amicably) 

I  believe  it.     How's  your  opera  getting  along? 

AMADEUS 

For  the  Lord's  sake,  please  don't  pretend  to  be  in- 
terested in  things  of  that  kind!  Why,  nobody  ex- 
pects it  of  you. 

FREDERIQUE 

Will  it  soon  be  finished? 

AMADET'S 

Finished  .  .  .  ?  How  could  it  be,  do  you  think?  I 
have  to  conduct  two  nights  a  week  at  least,  and  there 
are  rehearsals  in  the  morning,  not  to  mention  sing- 
ers that  have  to  be  coached.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  a 
man  can  sit  down  after  an  hour  like  this  and  invite 
his  muse? 


14-6  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

FK.EDERIQUE 

After  an  hour  like  this  .  .  .  ?  I  don't  think  you 
feel  quite  at  your  ease  with  me,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

Not  at  my  ease?  I?  With  you? — I  don't  think  you 
have  imagined  in  your  most  reckless  moments, 
Countess,  that  my  wife  might  have  anything  to  fear 
from  you. 

FEEDERIQUE 

You  are  determined  to  misunderstand  me.  (She  has 
gone  to  the  fireplace  and  turns  now  to  face  Ama- 
deus) You  know  perfectly  well  why  you  pretend  to 
be  cross  with  me.  Because  you  are  in  love  with  me. 
AMADEUS  {looks  straight  ahead  and  goes  on  playing) 

FREDERIQUE 

And  that  chord  proves  nothing  to  the  contrary. 

AMADEUS 

That  chord.  .  .  .  Tell  me  rather  what  kind  of  chord 
it  is.     {He  repeats  it  in  a  fury) 

FREDERIQUE 

A  flat  major. 
AMADEUS  {in  a  tone  of  boredom) 

G  major — of  course. 
FEEDERIQUE  {closc  by  Mm,  with  a  smile) 

Don't  let  that  semi-tone  spoil  our  happiness. 
AMADEUS  {rises,  goes  toward  the  background  and  looks 

out  into  the  garden) 

FREDERIQUE 

Is  it  your  wife? 

AMADEUS 

No,  my  little  boy  is  playing  out  there,  {He  stands 
at  the  window,  waving  his  hand  at  somebody  out- 
side; pause) 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  147 

FEEDERIQUE 

You  take  life  too  hard,  Amadeus. 

AMADEus  (still  at  the  w'mdoxv,  hut  turning  toward 
Frederique)  I  can't  lie — and  I  don't  want  to.  Which 
is  not  the  same  as  taking  life  hard. 

FEEDERIQUE 

Can't  lie  .  .  .  ?  And  yet  you  have  been  away  from 
your  wife  for  months  at  a  time — haven't  you?  And 
your  wife  came  here  while  you  were  still  conducting 
somewhere  abroad,  didn't  she.?  ...   So  that  .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

Those  are  matters  which  you  don't  quite  compre- 
hend, Countess.  {He  looks  again  toward  the  main 
entrance) 

FREDERIQUE 

No,  3'our  wife  can't  be  here  yet.  She  won't  give  up 
her  walk  on  a  wonderful  da}-  like  this. 

AMADEUS 

What  you  have  in  mind  now  is  pretty  mean,  Fred- 
erique. 

FREDERIQUE 

Why  so?  Of  course,  I  know  she  takes  a  walk  with 
you,  too,  now  and  then. 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  when  my  time  permits.  And  often  she  goes  out 
with  Sigismund.  To-day  she's  probably  with  him — 
and  that's  what  you  wanted  to  bring  home  to  me, 
of  course. 

FREDERIQUE 

Why  should  I?  You  know  it,  don't  you?  And  I 
assure  you,  it  has  never  occurred  to  me  to  see  any- 
thing wrong  in  it.     He's  a  friend  of  yours. 


148  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

AMADEUS 

More  than  that — or  less.     He  used  to  be  my  pupil. 

FKEDERIQUE 

I  didn't  know  that. 

AMADEUS 

Ten  years  ago,  while  still  a  mere  youngster,  I  used 
to  live  in  his  father's  palace.  It's  hard  to  tell  where 
I  might  have  been  to-day,  had  it  not  been  for  old 
Prince  Lohsenstcin.  You  see,  we  men  have  generally 
another  kind  of  youth  to  look  back  at  than  you.   .  .   . 

TREDEEIQUE 

.  .  .  women  artists. 

AMADEUS 

No,  countesses,  I  meant  to  say.  For  three  years  I 
spent  every  summer  in  the  palace  at  Krumau.^  And 
there — for  the  first  time  in  my  life — I  could  work  in 
peace,  all  by  myself,  with  nothing  more  to  do  than 
to  instruct  Sigismund. 

FEEDERIQUE 

Did  he  want  to  become  a  pianist  .f* 

AMADEUS 

Not  exactly.  He  wanted  to  join  some  monastic  or- 
der. 

EREDERIQUE 

No.?  Is  that  really  true? — Oh,  it's  queer  how  peo- 
ple change ! 

AMADEUS 

They  don't  as  much  as  you  think.     He  has  remained 

a  man  of  serious  mind. 

1  A  small  Bohemian  city  near  the  border  of  Upper  Austria.  On 
a  high  rock,  with  a  wonderful  view  along  the  river  Moldau,  stands 
the  Schwarzenberg  castle,  which  the  author  seems  to  have  had  in 
mind. 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  149 

FREDERKilE 

And  yet  he  plays  dance  music  so  cliarmingly  .   .   .    ? 

AMADEUS 

Why  shouldn't  he?  A  good  waltz  and  a  good  hymn 
are  just  as  acceptable  to  the  powers  above. 

FREDERIQUE 

How  delightful  those  evenings  in  your  house  used 
to  be !  No  fartlier  back  than  last  winter.  .  .  .  The 
Count  and  I  frequently  talk  of  them. — Have  you 
ceased  to  invite  Prince  Sigismund,  as  you  have  me.'* 

AMADEUS 

He  was  here  only  a  fortnight  ago,  my  dear  Countess 
- — and  spent  the  whole  evening  with  us.  We  had  sup- 
per in  the  summer-house,  and  then  we  came  in  here 
and  sat  chatting  for  a  long  while,  and  finally  he  im- 
provised some  variations  on  the  Cagliostro  Waltzes 
before  he  left. — And  what  my  wife  and  he  say  to 
each  other  during  their  walk,  when  I  am  not  with 
them,  will  no  more  be  hidden  from  me  than  I  would 
hide  from  her  what  you  and  I  have  been  talking  of 
here.  That's  how  my  wife  and  I  feel  toward  each 
other — if  you'll  please  understand,  Frederique ! 

FREDERIQUE 

But  there  are  things  one  simply  can't  say  to  each 
other. 

AMADEUS 

There  can  be  no  secrets  between  people  like  my  wife 
and  myself. 

FREDERIQUE 

Oh,  of  course  .  .  .  but  then  .  .  .  what  you  have 
been  saying  to  me  will  be  only  a  small  part  of  what 
you  must  tell  j^our  wife  to-day,  Amadeus.  Good-by. 
.   .   .   {She  holds  out  her  hand  to  him) 


150  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

AMADEUS 

What's  in  your  mind  now,  Frederique? 

FREDERIQUE 

Why  resist  your  fate?  Is  it  so  very  repulsive  after 
all  ?    What  you  are  to  me,  nobody  else  has  ever  been ! 

AMADEUS 

And  you  want  me  to  believe  that  ? 

FREDEEIQUE 

I  shall  not  insist  on  it.     But  it  is  true  nevertheless. 

Good-by  now.     Until  to-morrow,  Amadeus.     Life  is 

really  much  easier  than  you  think.  ...  It  might  be 

so  very  pleasant — and   so   it  shall   be!      {She  goes 

out) 
AMADEUS  (seats  himself  at  the  piano  again  and  strikes 

a  few  notes)     It  is  getting  serious   ...  or  amusing 

perhaps   .  .  .    ?     {He  shakes  his  head) 
ALBERT  RHON  {enters;  he  is  of  medium  height;  his  black 

hair,  slightly  streaked  with  gray,  is  worn  long;  he  is 

rather  carelessly  dressed) 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  is  that  you,  Albert  r    How  are  you  ? 

ALBERT 

I  have  come  to  ask  how  you  are  getting  along  with 
our  opera,  Amadeus.     Have  you  done  anything.? 

AMADEUS 

No. 

ALBERT 

Again  nothing? 

AMADEUS 

I  doubt  whether  I  can  get  a  chance  here.  We'll  have 
to  wait  until  the  season  is  over.  I  have  too  much  to 
do.  We  are  now  putting  on  "Mignon"  with  new 
people  in  some  of  the  parts  .   .  . 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  151 

ALBERT 

If  I'm  not  very  much  mistaken,  I  saw  Philinc  float 
by — with  a  rather  intoxicated  look  in  her  eyes.   .   .   . 
Oh,  have  I  put  my  foot  into  it  again?     I  beg  your 
pardon ! 
AMADEus  (turning  away  from  him) 

That's  right.  She  was  here.  Oil,  that  damned  busi- 
ness of  private  rehearsals !  But  I  hope  it  won't  last 
much  longer.  The  coming  Winter  is  going  to  de- 
cide my  future  once  for  all.  I  have  already  got  my 
leave  of  absence. 

ALBERT 

So  you  have  made  up  your  mind  about  that  tour.^ 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  I  shall  be  gone  for  two  months  this  time. 

ALBERT 

Within  Germany  only.'' 

AMADEUS 

I'll  probabl}^  take  in  a  few  Italian  cities  also.  Yes, 
my  dear  fellow,  they  know  more  about  me  abroad 
than  here.  I  shall  conduct  my  Third  Symphony, 
and  perhaps  also  my  Fourth. 

ALBERT 

Have  you  got  that  far  already.'' 

AMADEUS 

No.  But  I  have  hopes  of  the  Summer.  Once  more 
I  mean  to  do  some  real  work. 

ALBERT 

Well,  it's  about  time. — I  have  made  out  the  schedule 
for  our  walking  tour,  by  the  by.  And  I  brought 
along  the  map.  Look  here.  We  start  from  Nieder- 
dorf,  and  then  by  way  of  Platzwiesen  to  Schluder- 


152  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

bach ;  then  to  Cortina ;  then  through  the  Giau  Pass 
to  Caprile;  then  by  way  of  the  Fedaja.^   .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

I  leave  all  that  to  you.     I  rely  entirely  on  you. 

ALBERT 

Then  it's  settled  that  we'U  don  knapsack  and  alpen- 
stock once  more,  to  wander  through  the  country  as 
we  used  to  do  when  we  were  young  ....'' 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  and  I  am  looking  forward  to  it  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure. 

ALBERT 

You  need  simply  to  pull  yourself  together — a  few 
weeks  of  mountain  air  and  quiet  will  get  you  out  of 
this. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  I  haven't  got  into  anything  in  particular.  I 
am  a  little  nervous.     That's  all. 

ALBERT 

Can't  you  see,  Amadeus,  how  you  have  to  force  your- 
self in  order  to  use  this  evasion  toward  me,  who,  of 
course,  has  no  right  whatever  to  demand  any  frank- 
ness.'* Can't  you  see  how  you  are  wasting  a  part 
of  your  mental  energy,  so  to  speak,  on  this  slight 
disingenuousness?  No,  dissimulation  is  utterly 
foreign  to  your  nature,  as  I  have  always  told  you.   If 

^The  names  used  in  this  passage  occur  a  number  of  times  in 
the  various  plays,  indicating  that  their  author  probably  has  been 
drawing  on  experiences  obtained  during  his  own  walking  tours 
through  the  Dolomites.  As  far  as  Cortina,  the  route  is  identical 
with  the  one  mentioned  by  Wegrath  in  "The  I^onely  Way."  The 
Giau  Pass  is  a  little  known  footpath  across  Monte  Giau,  showing 
that  the  intention  of  Albert  is  to  avoid  the  routes  frequented 
by  tourists. 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  153 

you  should  ever  get  to  the  point  where  you  had  to 
deceive  one  wlio  was  near  and  dear  to  you,  that 
would  be  the  end  of  you. 

AMADEUS 

Your  worry  is  quite  superfluous !  Haven't  you 
known  us  long  enough — me  and  Cecilia — to  know 
that  our  marriage  is  based,  above  all  else,  on  abso- 
lute frankness? 

ALBERT 

Many  have  good  intentions,  but  their  courage  often 
deserts  them  at  the  critical  moment. 

AMADEUS 

We  have  never  yet  kept  anything  hidden  from  each 
other. 

ALBERT 

Because  so  far  you  have  had  nothing  to  confess. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  a  great  deal,  perhaps,  which  other  people  keep 
to  themselves.  Our  common  life  has  not  been  with- 
out its  complications.  We  have  had  to  be  parted 
from  each  other  for  months  at  a  time.  I  have  had 
to  rehearse  in  private  with  other  singers  than  Philine, 
and  {with  an  air  of  superiority)  other  men  than 
Prince  Sigismund  must  have  discovered  that  Cecilia 
is  pretty. 

ALBERT 

I  haven't  said  a  word  about  Cecilia. 

AMADEUS 

And  besides,  it  would  be  quite  hopeless  for  Cecilia 
or  me  to  keep  any  secrets.  We  know  each  other  too 
well — I  don't  think  two  people  ever  existed  who  un- 
derstood each  other  so  completely  as  we  do. 


154  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 


ALBERT 

I    can    imagine    a    point    where    the    understanding 
would  have  to  end,  and  everything  else  with  it. 

AMADEUS 

Everything  else  maybe — but  not  the  understanding. 

ALBERT 

Oh,  well!  If  nothing  is  left  but  the  understanding, 
that  means  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

AMADEUS 

Those  are — chances  that  every  human  being  must 
resign  himself  to  take. 

ALBERT 

You  don't  talk  like  one  who  has  resigned  himself, 
however,  but  like  one  who  has  made  up  his  mind. 

AMADEUS 

Who  can  be  perfectly  sure  of  himself  or  of  anybody 
else?  We  two,  at  any  rate,  are  not  challenging  fate 
by  feeling  too  secure. 

ALBERT 

Oh,  when  it  comes  to  that,  my  dear  fellow — fate  al- 
ways regards  itself  challenged — by  doubt  no  less 
than  by  confidence. 

AMADEUS 

To  be  safe  against  any  surprise  brings  a  certain 
sense  of  tranquillity  anyhow. 

ALBERT 

A  little  more  tranquillity  would  produce  a  decision 
to  avoid  anything  that  might  endanger  an  assured 
happiness. 

AMADEUS 

Do  you  think  anything  is  to  be  won  by  that  kind  of 
avoidance?  Don't  you  feel  rather,  that  the  worst 
and   most  dangerous   of   all   falsehoods   is   to   resist 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  155 

temptation  with  a  soul  full  of  longing  for  it?  And 
that  it  is  easier  to  go  unscathed  through  adven- 
tures than  through  desires? 

ALBEET 

Adventures  .  .  .  !  Is  it  actually  necessary,  then, 
to  live  through  them?  A  painter  who  has  risen 
above  pot-boiling,  and  who  has  left  the  follies  of 
youth  behind  him,  can  be  satisfied  with  a  single 
model  for  all  the  figures  that  are  created  out  of  his 
dreams — and  one  who  knows  how  to  live  may  have 
all  the  adventures  he  could  ever  desire  within  the 
peaceful  precincts  of  his  own  home.  He  can  ex- 
perience them  just  as  fully  as  anybody  else,  but 
without  waste  of  time,  without  unpleasantness,  with- 
out danger.  And  if  he  only  possess  a  little  imagina- 
tion, his  wife  may  bear  liim  nothing  but  illegitimate 
children  without  being  at  all  aware  of  it. 

AMADEUS 

It's  an  open  question  whether  you  have  the  right  to 
force  such  a  part  on  anybody  whom  you  respect. 

ALBERT 

It  is  not  wise  to  let  people  know  what  they  mean 
to  you.     I  have  put  this  thouglit  into  an  aphorism: 

If  you  grasp  me,  you  rasp  me; 

If  I  know  you,  I  own  you. 

MARIE  (entering  from  the  garden  with  little  Peter) 
Peter  wants  me  absolutely  to  come  in.     I  wanted  to 
wait  for  Cecilia  in  the  garden. 

AMADEUS 

How  are  you,  Marie? 

MARIE 

I'm  not  disturbing  you,  I  hope? 


156  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

GOVERNESS  {coTues  from  the  garden  with  the  intention 
of  taking  the  hoy  away)  Peter! 

PETER 

No,  I  want  to  stay  with  the  grown-ups. 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  let  him  be  with  us  for  a  while. 
GOVERNESS  {vetums  to  the  veranda,  where  she  remains 
visible  ) 

MARIE 

Well,  have  you  been  working  a  lot? 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  we  have  just  been  talking. 

ALBERT 

Do  you  know  why  she  asks?  Because  she  is  in 
love  with  Mr.  von  Rabagas. 

AMADEUS 

With  whom? 

ALBERT 

Don't  you  remember  him?  He's  that  interesting 
young  chap  who  appears  in  the  first  act  as  one 
of  the  King's  attendants.  She  used,  at  least,  to  fall 
in  love  only  with  the  heroes  of  my  plays,  but  nowa- 
days she  can't  even  resist  the  subordinate  characters. 

AMADEUS 

That  should  make  you  proud. 

ALBERT 

Proud,  you  say?  But  at  times  you  can't  help  re- 
gretting that  you  must  put  all  the  beauties  and 
virtues  of  the  world  into  the  figures  you  create,  so 
that  you  have  nothing  but  your  wee  bit  of  talent  left 
to  get  along  with  personally. 
CECILIA  {enters  from  the  right) 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  157 

PETER 

There's  mamma! 

CECILIA 

Good  afternoon.  (She  shakes  hands  with  every- 
body) How  are  you,  Marie?  This  is  awfully  nice. 
If  I  had  only  known  ...  I  went  for  a  short  walk. 
It's  such  a  wonderful  day. — Well,  Peter  {kissing 
him),  have  you  had  your  meal  yet.'' 

PETEE 

Yes. 
GOVERNESS  (entering  from  the  veranda) 

Good  afternoon,  Madame,  Peter  hasn't  had  his  nap 
yet. 

MARIE 

Does  he  still  have  to  sleep  in  the  daytime.''  Our  two 
children  have  quit  entirely. 

ALBERT 

Instead  they  play  a  most  exciting  game  every  after- 
noon— one  invented  by  themselves.  They  call  it 
"drums  and  bugles." 

MAEIE 

You  must  come  and  see  us  soon,  Peter,  so  that  you 
can  learn  to  play  that  game. 

PETER 

I've  got  a  music-box,  and  I'll  take  it  along  so  we 
can  make  more  noise. 

CECILIA 

Now  you  have  to  go.  But  first  you  must  say  good-by 
nicely. 

PETER 

I'll  say  "adieu."     Good-b}"^  is  so  common. 
[Everybody  laughs.     Peter  goes  out  with  the  Gov- 


158  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

erness.  Marie  and  Cecilia  move  slowly  toward  the 
^replace  and  sit  down  in  front  of  it. 

MARIE 

Of  course,  I  have  come  to  ask  for  something. 

CECILIA 

Well,  go  on. 

MARIE 

There's  to  be  a  concert  at  which  they  want  you  to 

assist. 

CECILIA 

This  season? 

MARIE 

Yes.  But  it  will  be  in  the  country,  not  In  the  city 
.  .  .  for  a  charitable  purpose,  of  course.  The  com- 
mittee would  be  so  happy  if  you»  would  sing  two  or 
three  songs. 

CECILIA 

I  think  I  can. 

MARIE 

And  I  shall  feel  very  grateful,  too. 

CECILIA 

Don't  you  find  undertakings  of  that  kind  a  lot  of 
trouble  ? 

MARIE 

Well,  you  must  have  something  to  do.  If  I  had  any 
gifts  like  the  rest  of  you,  I  am  sure  I  should  never 
bother  with  "people's  kitchens"  or  "charitable  teas" 
— and  then,  I  suppose,  I  should  feel  more  indifferent 
about  people,  too. 
CECILIA  (with  a  smile) 
About  people,  too? 

MARIE 

Oh,  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way. 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  159 

ALBERT 

You  see,  Marie,  there  is  something  like  the  charm 
of  meadows  and  fields  in  your  sweet  prattle,  and 
you  sliould  never  desert  it  for  the  thickets  of  psycho- 
logical speculations. — Come  on,  child.  These  peo- 
ple want  their  dinner. 

CECILIA 

No,  we  won't  eat  for  an  hour  yet. 

AMADEUS 

We  generally  work  a  little  before  we  eat.  To-day 
we  might  run  through  the  songs  for  that  concert, 
for  instance. 

CECILIA 

That  would  suit  me  perfectly. 

MARIE 

Oh,  I  feel  so  thankful  to  you,  Cecilia ! 

CECILIA 

And  when  shall  we  see  each  other  again .f" 

ALBERT 

Oh,  that  reminds  me!  We  have  just  been  talking 
about  the  Summer.  Amadeus  and  I  mean  to  go  on  a 
walking  tour.  How  would  it  be  if  you  two  were  to 
go  somewhere  with  the  children — some  place  in  the 
Tirol,  say — and  wait  for  us  there.? 

MARIE 

Oh,  that  would  be  fine! 

CECILIA  J, 

Did  you  hear  that,  Amadeus? 

AMADEUS  (who  /i«.«  been  standing  a  little  way  off) 
Certainly.      It   would   be   very   nice.   .  .   .  You    can 
wait  for  us  in  the  Tirol. 


160  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

CECILIA 

Could  you  come  and  see  me  to-morrow  afternoon, 
Marie?     Then  we  might  settle  the  matter. 

MARIE 

Yes,  indeed.  I  am  always  glad  when  you  can  spare 
me  a  little  of  your  time. — Until  to-morrow,  then! 

ALBERT 

Good-by.     (He  and  Marie  go  out) 

AMADEUS  {is  walking  to  and  fro) 

CECILIA  {who  is  sitting  on  the  couch,  follows  him  with 
her  eyes) 

AMADEUS  {after  a  turn  to  the  window  and  hack,  speak- 
ing in  a  peculiarly  dry  tone)  Well,  how  did  it  go-f* 
Have  you  got  the  finale  into  shape  at  last.'* 

CECILIA 

Oh,  in  a  manner. 

AMADEUS 

The  day  before  yesterday  it  had  not  yet  been 
brought  up  to  the  proper  level.  I  find,  for  one  thing, 
that  they  don't  let  you  assert  yourself  sufficiently. 
Your  voice  should  be  floating  above  the  rest,  in- 
stead of  being  submerged  in  the  crowd. 

CECILIA 

Won't  you  come  to  the  rehearsal  to-morrow — just 
once  more — if  you  can  spare  the  time.? 

AMADEUS 

Would  it  please  you  .  .  .    ? 

CECILIA 

I  always  feel  more  certain  of  myself  when  you  are 
within  reach.     You  know  that,  don't  you? 

AMADEUS 

Yes — I'll  come.  I'll  call  off  my  appointments  with 
Neumann  and  the  Countess. 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  161 

CECILIA 

If  it  isn't  too  great  a  sacrifice  .  .   . 
AMADEUS  {with  assumed  brusqueness) 

Oh,  I  can  make  her  come  in  the  afternoon. 

CECILIA 

But  then  there  will  be  no  time  left  for  your  own  work. 
No,  better  let  it  be. 

AMADEUS 

What  had  we  better  let  be.'' 

CECILIA 

Don't  come  to  the  rehearsal  to-morrow. 

AMADEUS 

Just  as  you  say,  Cecilia.  I  won't  intrude,  of  course. 
But  a  moment  ago  you  said  that  you  felt  more  cer- 
tain of  yourself  when  I  was  within  reach.  And  as 
far  as  my  work  is  concerned,  I  don't  think — Albert 
and  I  were  just  talking  of  it — nothing  will  come  of 
it  until  the  season  is  over. 

CECILIA 

That's  what  I  suspected. 

AMADEUS 

But  during  the  sunnncr  I'll  complete  my  Fourth.  I 
must  have  something  new  to  conduct  this  year.  And 
it's  only  a  question  of  the  final  passages,  for  that 
matter.  All  the  rest  is  as  good  as  finished — in  my 
mind  at  least. 

CECILIA 

It's  a  long  time  since  you  let  me  hear  anything  of 
it. 

AMADEUS 

It  hasn't  quite  reached  the  point  where  it  can  be 
played.  But,  of  course,  you  know  the  principal 
themes  ...  the   Allegro  .  .   .  and  then   the   Inter- 


162  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 


mezzo  .  .  .  {He  goes  to  the  piano  and  strikes  a  few 
notes) 

CECILIA 

So  you  are  going  next  November? 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  for  three  months. 

CECILIA 

And  during  October  I  shall  be  in  Berlin. 

AMADEUS 

Oh  ...  is  there  any  news  in  that  matter.'* 

CECILIA 

Yes,  I  have  practically  closed.  Reichenbach  came 
to  see  me  at  the  opera-house.  I'm  to  appear  in 
three  parts.  As  Carmen  under  all  circumstances. 
The  other  two  are  left  to  my  own  choice. 

AMADEUS 

And  what  do  you  .  .  .   ? 

CECILIA 

Tatyana,^  I  suppose.  I  have  heard  that  they  have 
such  a  splendid  Onyegin. 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  Wedius.  I  know  him.  He  was  in  Dresden 
when  I  was  there. — Carmen,  then,  and  Tatyana, 
and  .   .  .    ? 

CECILIA 

I  am  still  considering.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we  might  talk 
it  over? 

AMADEUS 

Of  course.     (Pause) 

*  Tatyana  and  Onyegin  are  characters  in  the  opera  "Eugene 
Onyegin,"  by  Tschaikovsky,  which  is  founded  on  Pushkin's  famous 
poem  of  the  same  name. 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  163 

CECILIA 

It's  going  to  be  a  busy  Winter. 

AMADEUS 

Rather.     We  won't  see  much  of  each  other. 

CECILIA 

We'll  have  to  correspond. 

AMADEUS 

As  we  have  done  before. 

CECILIA 

We're  used  to  it. 

AMADEUS 

Yes.  (Pause)  Tell  me  by  the  way:  do  you  actually 
want  to  assist  at  that  charity  concert.'' 

CECILIA 

Why  not.?  I  couldn't  say  no  to  Marie.  Have  you 
any  objection? 

AMADEUS 

No — why  should  I  ?  But  we  might  use  the  half  hour 
that's  left  to  go  over  something.  [He  goes  to  the 
music-stand)     What  do  you  want  to  sing.'* 

CECILIA 

Oh,  something  of  yours,  for  one  thing  .  .   . 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  no,  no. 

CECILIA 

Why  not? 

AMADEUS 

There's  nothing  within  yourself  that  prompts  you 
to  sing  it  anyhow. 

CECILIA 

Just  as  you  say,  Amadeus. — I  don't  want  to  intrude 
either. 


164  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

AMADEus  {bending  forward  and  searching  among  the 
music)  How  would  Schumann  be — "The  Snow- 
drop?" .  .  .  Or  .  .  .  "Old  Melodies"  ...  and  "Love 
Betrayed"  .  .  . 

CECILIA 

Yes.  And  perhaps  von  Wolf's  "Concealment,"  and 
something  by  Brahms.  "No  more  to  meet  you,  was 
my  firm  decision.   . 


» 


AMADEUS 

Yes,  I  was  just  holding  it  in  my  hand.  {As  if  casu- 
ally, and  very  dryly)  So  you  went  for  a  walk  with 
Sigismund  after  all? 

CECILIA 

Yes.     He  sent  his  regards  to  you. 
AMADEUS  {smiling) 

Did  he?  {As  he  brings  the  music  sheets  to  the 
piano)     Why  doesn't  he  come  here  instead? 

CECILIA 

One  of  the  things  I  like  about  him  is  that  he  won't. 

AMADEUS 

Is  that  so? — Oh,  well! — I'll  send  him  my  regards, 
too.  But  it's  really  too  bad  that  he  won't  come  here 
any  more.  It  was  very  nice  to  hear  him  play  his 
waltzes — those  evenings  were  really  very  pleasant. 
...  I  just  happened  to  mention  them  to  the 
Countess  this  afternoon. 

CECILIA 

Oh,  you  did.'' — And  I  have  just  seen  her  picture. 

AMADEUS 

Her  picture? 

CECILIA 

I  went  with  Sigismund  to  the  Art  Gallery. 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  165 

AMADEUS 

Oh. — They  toll  me  it's  a  great  success. 

CECILIA 

It  would  be  a  wonder  if  it  were  not.  The  artist  spent 
six  months  on  it,  they  say.   .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

Is  that  too  much  for  a  good  picture? 

CECILIA 

No,  but  for  the  Countess. — She  will  probably  sing 
Philine  pretty  well,  by  the  way. 

AMADEUS 

You  think  so?  I  fear  you  are  mistaken.  .  .  . 
(Pause)  Well,  Cecilia,  what  were  you  talking  of 
to-day — you  and  Sigismund? 

CECILIA 

What  were  we  talking  of  ...  ?  (Pause)  It's  so 
hard  to  recall  the  words.  .  .  .  (As  she  goes  slowly 
to  the  fireplace)  And  they  have  such  a  different 
sound  when  recalled  in  that  way. 

AMADEUS 

True  indeed.  (Coming  nearer  to  her)  And  I  don't 
suppose  it's  the  words  that  matter.  .  .  .  Well,  Ce- 
cilia, can  it  be  possible  that  you  have  nothing  more 
to  tell  me? 

CECILIA 

Nothing  more  .  .  .  ?  (Hesitatingly)  Don't  you 
think,  Amadeus,  that  many  things  actually  change 
character  when  you  try  to  put  them  into  words? 

AMADEUS 

Not  for  people  like  us. 


166  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

CECILIA 

That  may  have  been  true  once.  But  .  .  .  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do  .  .  .  that  things  are  no  longer  as 
they  used  to  be. 

AMADEUS 

Not  quite,  perhaps.  I  know.  But  this  shouldn't  be 
a  reason  for  either  one  of  us  to  refuse  telling  the 
other  one.  Scruples  of  that  kind  would  be  unworthy 
of  ourselves.  This  is  we,  Cecilia — you  and  me!  So 
you  may  tell  me  fearlessly  what  you  have  to  tell. 
CECILIA  {rising) 

Don't  try  to  encourage  me,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

Well  .  .  .    ,? 
CECILIA  {remains  silent) 

AMADEUS 

Do  you  love  him? 

CECILIA 

Do  I  love  him  ,  .  .   ? 
AMADEUS  {urgently) 
Cecilia  .  .  .    ! 

CECILIA 

Am  I  to  tell  you  more  than  I  think  is  true?  Wouldn't 
that  be  a  lie,  too — as  good  or  as  bad  as  any  other 
one?  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  think  I  love  him.  It  is  noth- 
ing like  it  was  when  I  became  acquainted  with  you, 
Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

That  time  is  long  past. — And  you  have  probably 
forgotten  what  it  was  like.  On  the  whole,  it  must 
be  the  same  thing,  I  suppose.  Only  you  have  grown 
a  little  older  since  then,  and  you  have  been  living 
with  me  for  seven  years.  .  .  ,  No  matter  how  far 


tti 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  167 


apart  wc  may  have  been,  you  have  been  living  with 
me — and  we  have  a  child  .   .  . 

CECILIA 

Well,  perhaps  that's  what  makes  the  difference — but 
there  is  a  difference. 

AMADEUS 

What  really  matters  is  notliing  new,  however.  You 
feel  attracted  to  him,  don't  you.-^ 

CECILIA  (speaking  with  genuine  feeling  and  almost  ten- 
derly) But  perhaps  tliere  is  still  something  that 
holds  back — that  could  hold  me  back,  if  it  only 
wanted. 

AMADEUS  {after  a  pause,  brusquely) 

But  it  doesn't  want  to  ...  it  doesn't  dare  to  want 
it.  What  sense  could  there  be  in  it.?  Perhaps  I 
might  prove  the  stronger  to-daj' — and  the  next  time, 
perhaps — but  sooner  or  later  the  day  must  come 
nevertheless,  when  I  should  suffer  defeat. 

CECILIA 

Why.'*  ...  It  ought  not  to  be  nccessar}'! 

AMADEUS 

And  then,  even  if  I  remained  victorious  every  time — 
could  tliat  be  called  happiness  for  which  I  must  fight 
repeatedly  and  tremble  all  the  time.?  Could  that  be 
called  happiness  in  our  case,  who  have  known  what 
is  so  much  better.?  .  .  .  No,  Cecilia,  our  love 
should  not  be  permitted  to  end  in  mutual  distrust. 
I  don't  hold  you,  Cecilia,  if  you  are  attracted  else- 
where— and  you  have  known  all  the  time  that  I 
would  never  hold  you. 

CECILIA 

Maybe  you  are  right,  Amadcus.  But  is  it  pride 
alone  that  makes  you  let  me  slip  away  so  easily.? 


168  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

AMADEUS 

Is  it  love  alone  that  brings  you  back  when  almost 
gone?     {Pause;  he  goes  to  the  window) 

CECILIA 

Why  should  we  spoil  these  hours  with  bitterness, 
Amadeus?  After  all,  we  have  nothing  to  reproach 
each  other  for.  Wc  have  promised  to  be  honest  with 
each  other,  and  my  word  has  been  kept  so  far. 

AMADEUS 

And  so  has  mine.  If  you  want  it,  I  can  tell  you 
exactly  what  I  and  the  Countess  talked  of  to-day, 
as  I  have  always  done.  And  for  me,  Cecilia,  it  will 
even  be  possible  to  recall  the  very  words. 

CECILIA  (looking  long  at  him.) 
I  know  enough.      (Pause) 

AMADEUS  (walking  to  and  fro  until  he  stops  some  dis- 
tance away  from  her )     And  what  next ? 

CECILIA 

What  next  .  .  .  ?  Perhaps  it's  just  as  well  that 
our  vacations  are  soon  to  begin.  Then  we  may 
consider  in  peace,  each  one  by  himself,  what  is  to 
come  next. 

AMADEUS 

It  seems  almost  as  if  both  of  us  should  have  expected 
this  very  thing.  We  have  made  no  common  plans 
for  the  summer,  although  we  have  always  done  so 
before. 

CECILIA 

The  best  thing  for  me  is  probably  to  go  with  the 
boy  to  some  quiet  place  In  the  Tirol  ...  as  you 
and  Albert  suggested. 

AMADEUS 

Yes. 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  169 

CECILIA 

And  you  .  .  .   ? 

AMADEUS 

I  .  .  .  ?  I  shall  make  that  walking  tour  with  Al- 
bert. I  want  to  be  scrambling  about  in  the  moun- 
tains once  more. 

CECILIA 

And  finally  descend  into  some  beautiful  valley — is 
that  what  you  mean.'* 

AMADEUS 

That — might  happen. 
CECILIA  {dryly) 

But  ^rst — we  should  have  to  bid  each  other  definite 
good-by,  as  there  is  no  return  from  that  place. 

AMADEUS 

Of  course,  there  isn't!  No  more  than  from  your 
place. 

CECILIA 

From  mine  ....'* 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  it  might  happen  that  you  felt  inclined  to  .  .  . 
change  your  plans  .  .  .  and  instead  of  staying  with 
Marie  .  .  .  prefer   the   undisturbed  .  .  . 

CECILIA 

I  won't  change  my  plans.  And  you  had  better  not 
change  yours. 

AMADEUS 

If  that  be  your  wish  .  .  . 

CECILIA 

It  is  my  wish.     {Pause) 

AMADEUS 

Can  it  be  possible  that  now,  all  at  once,  the  moment 
should  have  come? 


170  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

CECILIA 

What  moment? 

AMADEUS 

Well — the  one  we  used  to  foresee  in  our  happiest 
days  even — the  one  we  have  expected  as  something 
almost  invitable. 

CECILIA 

Yes,  it  has  come.  We  know  now  that  everything  is 
over. 

AMADEUS 

Over  .  .  .    ? 

CECILIA 

That's  what  we  have  been  talking  of  all  the  time,  I 
suppose. 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  you  are  right.  At  bottom  it  is  better  that  we 
put  it  into  plain  words  at  last.  Our  moods  have 
been  rather  too  precarious  lately. 

CECILIA 

Everything  will  be  improved  now. 

AMADEUS 

Improved  .  .  .  ?  Why.''  .  .  .  Oh,  of  course  .  .  . 
perhaps  you  are  right.  I  feel  almost  as  if  things 
had  already  begun  to  improve.  It's  strange,  but 
.   .   .   one  .   .   .   seems  to  breathe  more  freely. 

CECILIA 

Yes,  Amadeus,  now  we  are  reaping  the  reward  of 
always  having  been  honest.  Think  how  exhausted 
most  people  would  be  in  a  moment  like  this — by  all 
sorts  of  painful  evasions,  labored  truces,  and  piti- 
fully sentimental  reconciliations.  Think  of  the  hos- 
tile spirit  in  which  they  would  be  facing  each  other 
during  their  moment  of  belated  candor.     We  two, 


4 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  171 

Amadcus — we  shall  at  least  be  able  to  part  as 
friends.      (Pause) 

AMADEUS 

And  our  boy? 

CECILIA 

Is  he  your  sole  worry? 

AMADEUS 

No,  there  are  many  things.  How  is  it  going  to  be 
arranged  anyhow? 

CECILIA 

That's  what  we  shall  have  to  discuss  carefully  during 
the  next  few  days — before  we  go  away.  Until  then 
everything  must  remain  as  before.  It  can  perfectly 
well  remain  as  it  has  been  during  the  last  year.  That 
involves  no  wrong  to  anybody.     (Pause) 

AMADEUS  (seats  himself  at  the  piano;  the  ensuing  pause 
is  laden  with  apprehension;  then  he  begins  to  play 
the  same  theme — a  Capriccio — which  was  heard 
earlier  during  the  scene) 

CECILIA  (who  has  been  approaching  the  door  to  the 
veranda,  turns  about  to  listen) 

AMADEUS  (stops  abruptly) 

CECILIA 

Why  don't  you  go  on? 
AMADEUS   (laughs  quichly,  nervously) 

CECILIA 

Wasn't  that  the  Intermezzo? 

AMADEUS    (nods) 

CECILIA  (still  at  some  distance  from  him) 

Have  you  made  up  your  mind  what  you  are  going 
to  call  it?     Is  it  to  be  Capriccio? 


172  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

AMADEUS 

Perhaps  Capriccio  dolorosa.  It  is  peculiar  how 
one  often  fails  to  understand  one's  own  ideas  to  be- 
gin with.  The  hidden  sadness  of  that  theme  has  been 
revealed  to  me  by  you. 

CECILIA 

Oh,  you  would  have  discovered  it  yourself,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

Maybe.  {Pause)  And  whom  will  you  get  for  the 
studying  of  your  parts  next  year? 

CECILIA 

Oh,  I'll  always  find  somebody.  Those  numbers  for 
the  concert — you'll  help  me  with  those  just  the 
same,  won't  you?  And  I  hope  you'll  be  kind  enough 
to  give  me  the  accompaniment  at  the  concert  too. 

AMADEUS 

That's  a  foregone  conclusion. — But  I  should  really 
like  to  know  who  is  to  assist  you  with  your  studies 
after  this. 

CECILIA 

Do  you  regard  that  as  the  most  important  problem 
to  be  solved? 

AMADEUS 

No,  of  course  not.     The  less  so,  as  I  don't  quite  see 
why  I  shouldn't  go  on  helping  you  as  before. 
CECILIA  {with  a  smile) 

Oh,  you  think  .  .  .  ?  But  then  we  should  have  to 
agree  on  hours  and  conditions. 

AMADEUS 

That  was  not  meant  as  a  joke,  Cecilia.  Seeing  that 
we  are  parting  in  a  spirit  of  perfect  understanding, 
why  shouldn't  such  an  arrangement  be  considered 
tentatively  at  least? 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  173 

CECILIA 

Those  things  will  probably  settle  themselves  later 
on.  .  .  .  That  we  .  .  .  that  you  play  my  accom- 
paniment at  a  concert  ...  or  help  me  to  study  a 
part  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

Why  later  on.'*  .  .  .  {He  rises  and  stands  leaning 
against  the  piano)  There  can  be  no  reasonable 
ground  for  changing  our  musical  relationships.  I 
think  both  of  us  would  suffer  equally  from  doing 
so.  Without  overestimating  myself,  I  don't  think 
it  likely  that  you  can  find  a  better  coach  than  I  am. 
And  as  for  my  compositions,  I  don't  know  of  any- 
body who  could  understand  them  better — with  whom 
I  would  rather  discuss  them  than  with  you. 

CECILIA 

And  yet  that's  what  you  will  have  to  come  to. 

AMADEUS 

I  can't  see  it.  After  all,  we  have  nobody  else  to  con- 
sider— at  least,  I  have  not. 

CECILIA 

Nor  have  I.  I  shall  know  how  to  preserve  my  free- 
dom. 

AMADEUS 

Well,  then  ....?! 

CECILIA 

Nevertheless,  Amadeus  .  .  .  That  we  must  meet 
and  talk  is  made  necessary  by  our  positions,  of 
course.  .  .  .  But  even  in  regard  to  our  work  things 
cannot  possibly  remain  as  hitherto.  I'm  sure  you 
must  realize  that, 


174  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

AMADEUS 

I  can't  see  it.  And — leaving  our  artistic  rela- 
tions entirely  aside — there  is  much  else  to  be  con- 
sidered— things  of  more  importance.  Our  boy,  Ce- 
cilia. Why  should  the  youngster  all  at  once  be  made 
fatherless,  so  to  speak.'' 

CECILIA 

That's  entirely  out  of  the  question.  We  must  come 
to  an  understanding,  of  course. 

AMADEUS 

An  understanding,  you  say.  But  why  make  difficul- 
ties that  could  be  avoided  by  a  little  good-will.''  The 
boy  is  mine  as  much  as  3'ours.  Why  shouldn't  we 
continue  to  bring  him  up  together.'' 

CECILIA 

You  suggest  things  that  simply  can't  be  done. 

AMADEUS 

I  don't  feel  like  you  about  that. — On  the  contrary ! 
The  more  I  consider  our  situation  calmly,  the  more 
irrational  it  seems  to  me  that  we  should  part  ways 
like  any  ordinary  divorced  couple  .  .  .  that  we  should 
give  up  the  beautiful  home  we  have  in  common.   .   .   . 

CECILIA 

Now  you  are  dreaming  again,  Amadeus ! 

AMADEUS 

We  have  been  such  good  chums  besides.  And  so  we 
might  remain,  I  think. 

CECILIA 

Oh,  of  course,  we  shall. 

AMADEUS 

Well,  then !  The  things  that  bind  us  together  are  so 
compelling,  after  all,  that  any  new  experiences 
brought  by  our  freedom  must  seem  absolutely  unes- 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  175 


sential  In  comparison.  Don't  you  realize  that  as  I 
do?  And  we  shouldn't  have  to  consider  what  people 
may  say.  I  think  we  have  the  right  to  place  our- 
selves on  a  somewhat  higher  level.  In  the  last  in- 
stance, we  must  always  belong  together,  even  if  a 
single  tie  should  be  severed  among  the  hundreds  that 
unite  us.  Or  are  we  all  of  a  sudden  to  forget  what 
we  have  been  to  each  other — as  well  as  what  we  may 
and  should  be  to  each  other  hereafter.?  One  thing 
remains  certain:  that  no  one  else  will  ever  under- 
stand you  as  I  do,  and  no  one  me  as  you  do.  .  .  . 
And  that's  what  counts  in  the  end !   So  why  shouldn't 

WG     •     •     • 
CECILIA 

No,  it's  impossible !  Not  because  of  the  people.  They 
concern  me  as  little  as  they  do  you.  But  for  our 
own  sake. 

AMADEUS 

For  our  own  sake  .   .   .    ? 

CECILIA 

You  see,  there  is  one  thing  you  forget:  that,  begin- 
ning with  to-day,  we  shall  have  secrets  to  keep  from 
each  other.  Who  knows  how  many — or  how  heavy 
they  may  prove.?  .  .  .  But  even  the  least  of  them 
must  come  between  us  like  a  veil. 

AMADEUS 

Secrets  .   .  .    ? 

CECILIA 

Yes,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

No,  Cecilia. 

CECILIA 

What  do  3'ou  mean? 


176  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

AMADEUS 

That's  exactly  what  must  not  happen. 

CECILIA 

But — Amadeus ! 

AMADEUS 

There  must  never  be  any  secrets  between  us  two. 
Everytliing  depends  on  that — you  arc  right  to  that 
extent.  But  why  should  there  be  any  secrets  between 
us.^*  Remember  that  after  to-day  we  shall  no  longer 
be  man  and  wife,  but  chums — just  chums,  who  can 
hide  nothing  from  each  other — who  must  not  hide 
anything.     Or  is  that  more  than  you  dare.? 

CECILIA 

More  than  I  dare  .   .  .    ?     Of  course  not. 

AMADEUS 

All  right.  We'll  discuss  everything  frankly,  just  as 
we  have  been  doing — nay,  we  shall  have  more  things 
than  ever  to  discuss.  Truth  becomes  now  the  natural 
basis  of  our  continued  relationship — truth  without 
any  reservation  whatsoever.  And  that  should  prove 
highly  profitable,  not  only  to  our  mutual  relation- 
ship, but  to  each  one  of  us  individually.  Because 
.  .  .  you  don't  think,  do  you,  that  either  one  of  us 
could  find  a  better  chum  than  the  other  one?  .  .  . 
Now  we  shall  bring  our  joys  and  sorrows  to  each 
other.  We  shall  be  as  good  friends  as  ever,  if  not 
better  still.  And  our  hands  shall  be  joined,  even  if 
chasms  open  between  us.  And  thus  we  shall  keep  all 
that  we  have  had  in  common  hitherto :  our  work,  our 
child,  our  home — all  that  we  must  continue  to  have 
in  common  if  it  is  to  retain  its  full  value  to  botli  of 
us.     And  we  shall  gain  many  new  things  for  which 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  177 

both  of  us   have   longed — things   in  which  I   could 
take  no  pleasure,  by  the  way,  If  I  had  to  lose  you. 
CECILIA  {drops  him  a  curtsey) 

AMADEUS 

That's  how  you  feel,  too,  Cecilia.  I  am  sure  of  it. 
We  simply  cannot  live  without  each  other.  I  cer- 
tainly cannot  live  without  you. — And  how  about 
you.? 

CECILIA 

It's  quite  likely  I  should  find  it  a  little  difficult. 

AMADEUS 

Then  we  agree,  Cecilia! 

CECILIA 

You  think  so  .  .  .   .''! 

AMADEUS 

Cecilia!     {He  suddenly  draws  her  closer  to  himself) 
CECILIA  {with  new  hope  lightiiig  her  glance) 

What  are  you  doing? 
AMADEUS  {putting  his  arms  about  her) 

I  now  bid  good-by  to  my  beloved. 

CECILIA 

Forever. 

AMADEUS 

Forever.  {Pressing  her  hand)  And  now  I  am  wel- 
coming my  friend. 

CECILIA 

For  all  time  to  come — nothing  but  your  friend. 

AMADEUS 

For  all  time  ....''    Of  course! 
CECILIA  {draws  a  deep  breath) 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  Cecilia,  don't,  you  feel  much  easier  all  at  once.^ 


178  INTERMEZZO  [act  i 

CECILIA 

The  whole  thing  seems  very  strange  to  me — like  a 
dream  almost. 

AMADEUS 

There  is  nothing  strange  about  it.  Nothing  could 

possibly  be  simpler  or  more  sensible.  Life  goes  right 

on  .  .  .  and  all  is  well.  .  .  .  Come  on,  Cecilia — let 
us  run  through  those  songs. 

CECILIA 

What  songs  .   .  .    ? 

AMADEUS 

Don't  you  care.? 

CECILIA 

Oh,  why  not? — With  pleasure.  .  .  . 

AMADEUS  {seating  himself  at  the  piano) 

Really,  I  can't  tell  you  how  happy  this  makes  me ! 
There  has  practically  been  no  change  whatever. 
The  uneasiness  alone  is  gone  .  .  .  that  uneasiness 
of  the  last  few  weeks.  ...  I  have  not  had  a  very 
happy  time  lately.  The  sky  has  seemed  so  black 
above  our  house — and  not  only  above  ours.  Now 
the  clouds  are  vanishing.  The  whole  world  has 
actually  grown  light  again.  And  I  am  going  to 
write  a  symphony — oh,  a  symphony  .  .  .    ! 

CECILIA 

Everything  in  due  time.  .  .  .  Just  now  let  us  have 
one  of  those  songs  at  least.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  one  ....'' 

AMADEUS 

Don't  you  want  it? 

CECILIA 

Oh,  as  it's  there  already  .  .  . 


ACT  i]  INTERMEZZO  179 

AMADEUS 

Now,  then — I  start.  (He  strikes  the  frst  chord) 
Please  don't  put  a  lot  of  sentimentality  into  the 
opening  words.  They  should  be  reserved  and  pon- 
derous. 

CECILIA  (singing) 

"No  more  to  meet  you  was  my  firm  ..." 

AMADEUS 

Very  fine. 

CECILIA 

0  Amadeus ! 

AMADEUS 

What  is  it.? 

CECILIA 

1  am  afraid  you  will  become  too  lenient  now. 

AMADEUS 

Lenient  .  .  .  ?  You  know  perfectly  well  that,  as 
artist  considered,  you  have  no  rival  in  my  eyes,  and 
will  never  have  one. 

CECILIA 

Really,  Amadeus,  you  shouldn't  be  flirting  with  all 
your  pupils. 

AMADEUS 

I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  you. — Now  let's  go 
in! 

CECILIA 

"No  more  to  meet  ..." 

AMADEUS 

What's  the  matter? 

CECILIA 

Nothing.  I  haven't  tried  to  sing  anything  like  this 
for  a  long  time.     Go  right  on ! 


180 


INTERMEZZO 


[act  X 


AMADEUS  {begins  playing  again) 

CECILIA 

"No  more  to  meet  you  was  my  firm  and  sworn  de- 
cision, and  yet  when  evening  comes,  I  .  .  .  " 


CURTAIN 


THE    SECOND    ACT 

The  same  room  as  in  the  'previous  act.  It  is  an 
evening  in  October.  The  stage  is  dark.  Marie  and 
the  chambermaid  enter  together.  The  maid  turns  on 
the  light. 

MARIE 

Thank  you. — But  if  your  mistress  is  tired,  please 
tell  her  she  mustn't  let  me  disturb  her. 

CHAMBERMAID 

She   hasn't   arrived  yet.      She's   not   expected   until 
this  evening. 
AMADEUS  {enters  from  the  right,  with  hat  and  overcoat 
on)    Who  is  it.?  .  .  .  Oh,  is  it  you,  Marie !    Glad  to 
see  you.     Have  you  been  here  long.? 

MARIE 

No,  I  just  got  here.  I  meant  to  call  on  Cecilia,  but 
I  hear  .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

Then  you  can  keep  me  company  waiting  for  her, 
{Handing  overcoat  and  hat  to  the  maid)  Please 
take  these. 

CHAMBERMAID   {gOCS  OUt) 
AMADEUS 

I  have  also  just  got  home.  I  had  to  do  a  lot  of 
errands.     I  start  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

MARIE 

So  soon ! — That'll  be  a  short  reunion. 


182  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

AMADEUS 

Yes. — Won't  you  sit  down,  please?  (Looking  at 
his  watch)     Cecilia  should  be  here  in  an  hour. 

MARIE 

She  has  had  a  tremendous  success  again. 

AMADEUS 

I  should  say  so !  Look  here — the  telegram  I  got 
this  morning.  (He  takes  it  from  the  writing  desk 
and  hands  it  to  Marie)  It  refers  to  her  final  ap- 
pearance last  night. 

MAEIE 

Oh  .  .  .  Twenty-seven  curtain  calls  .  .  .    ! 

AMADEUS 

What?  .  .  .  Naw!      That    flourish    belongs    to    the 
preceding     word.        Seven     only !       Otherwise     she 
wouldn't  be  coming  to-day. 
MARIE  {reading  again) 

"Have  new  offer  on  brilliant  terms." 

AMADEUS 

On  brilliant  terms! 

MARIE 

Then  I  suppose  she'll  do  it  at  last? 

AMADEUS 

Do  what? 

MARIE 

Settle  down  in  Berlin  for  good. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  it  isn't  certain.  "Have  offer,"  she  says,  and 
not  "have  accepted  offer."  No,  we'll  have  to  talk  it 
over  first. 

MARIE 

Really? 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  183 

AMADEUS 

Of  course.  We  consult  each  other  about  everything, 
my  dear  Marie — just  as  we  used  to  do.  And  in  a 
much  more  impersonal  spirit  than  before.  As  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  I  shall  be  quite  free  next  year,  and 
have  no  more  reason  to  live  in  Vienna  than  in  Berlin 
or  in  America. 

MARIE 

But  it  will  be  dreadful  for  me  if  Cecilia  goes  away. 

AMADEUS 

Well,  these  successes  abroad  may  possibly  force  the 
people  here  to  understand  what  they  have  in  Cecilia, 
and  to  act  accordingly. 

MARIE 

I  hope  so. — Besides,  I  think  really  that  Cecilia  has 
developed  a  great  deal  lately.  To  nie  her  voice 
seems  fuller  and  richer — with  more  soul  to  it,  I  might 
say. 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  don't  you  think  so?     That's  my  feeling,  too. 

MARIE 

But  how  she  does  work !  It  had  never  occurred  to 
me  that  a  finished  artist  might  be  so  industrious. 

AMADEUS 

Might,  you  say.?     Must,  you  should  say. 

MARIE 

Last  summer,  when  I  came  out  mornings  in  the  gar- 
den to  play  witli  my  children,  she  would  be  prac- 
ticing already — just  like  a  young  student.  With  ab- 
solute regularity,  from  nine  until  a  quarter  of  ten. 
Then  again  before  lunch,  from  twelve  to  half  past. 
And  finally  another  half  hour  in  the  evening.   .   .  . 


184  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

If  the  weather  was  good  or  bad;  if  she  was  in  good 
spirits  or  .  .   . 

AMADEUS 

Or  ...    ? 

MARIE 

She  was  always  in  good  spirits  for  that  matter.  I 
don't  think  anything  in  the  world  could  have  kept 
her  from  practicing  those  runs  and  trills. 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  that's  her  way.  Nothing  in  the  world  could 
keep  her  from  .  .  .  But  then,  what  could  there  be 
to  keep  her  from  it  last  Summer?  In  that  rustic  re- 
treat of  yours,  where  you  didn't  see  anybody  .  .  . 
or  hardly  anybody  .  .  . 

MARIE 

Nobody  at  all. 

AMADEUS 

Well,  you  recieved  a  call  now  and  then — or  Cecilia 
did,  at  least. 

MARIE 

Oh,  I  see.     You  mean — Prince  Sigismund.     He  could 
hardly  be  said  to  call. 
AMADEUS  {smilingly,  with  an  appearance  of  unconcern) 
Why  not.? 

MARIE 

He  merely  whisked  by  on  his  wheel. 
AMADEUS  (as  before) 

Oh,  he  must  at  least  have  stopped  to  lean  against 
a  tree  for  a  few  moments.  He  must  even  have  taken 
time  enough — and  I  am  mighty  glad  he  did — to  pho- 
tograph the  little  house  in  which  you  were  living. 
{He  takes  from  the  desk  a  small  framed  photograph 
and  hands  it  to  Marie,  who  is  seated  on  the  couch) 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  185 

MARIE  (surprised) 

And  you  liave  that  standing  on  your  writing  desk? 

AMADEUS  (slightly  puzzled) 
Why  shouldn't  I? 

MARIE  (studying  the  photograph) 

Just  as  it  was — Cecilia  and  I  sitting  on  the  bench 
there — yes.  And  there's  the  hazel  by  the  garden 
fence.  .  .  .  How  it  does  bring  back  the  memory  of 
that  beautiful,  warm  Summer  day  .  .   . 

AMADEUS  (bending  over  the  desk  to  look  at  the  picture) 
I  can  make  out  you  and  Cecilia,  but  those  three  boys 
puzzle  me  hopelessly. 

MARIE 

In  what  way  .  .  .  ?  That's  little  Peter,  who  is  do- 
ing like  this  .   .   .   (She  blinks) 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  is  that  it? 

MAUIE 

And  that's  Max — and  he  with  the  hoop  is  Mauritz. 

AMADEUS 

So  that's  a  hoop?  ...  I  took  it  for  one  of  those 
cabins  used  by  the  watchmen  along  the  railroad. 
The  background  comes  out  much  better.  The  land- 
scape actually  looks  as  if  steeped  in  Summer  and 
stillness.   .   .   .   (Brief  pause) 

MARIE 

It  was  really  nice.  The  deep  shadows  of  the  woods 
right  back  of  the  house,  and  that  view  of  the  moun- 
tain peaks — oh,  marvelous !  And  then  the  seclusion. 
.  .  .  It's  too  bad  that  you  never  had  a  look  at  that 
darling  place.  We  thought  .  .  .  Cecilia  did  expect 
you  after  all  .   .   . 


186  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

AMADEUS  {has  risen  and  is  walking  to  and  fro) 

I  don't  believe  it.  .  .  .  And  it  didn't  prove  feasible, 
for  that  matter.  The  pull  of*  the  South  was  still 
on  me. 

MARIE  (smiling) 

You  call  that  the  South? 

AMADEUS  (smiling  also) 
Oh,  Marie ! 

MARIE  (a  little  embarrassed) 
I  hope  you're  not  offended? 

AMADEUS 

Why  sliould  I  be?     I  didn't  make  a  secret  of  my 
whereabouts  to  anybody. 
MARIE  (confidentially) 

Albert  told  me  about  the  villa,  and  the  park,  and  the 
marble  steps  .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

So  he  gave  you  all  those  details  ?  And  yet  he  wasn't 
there  more  than  an  hour. 

MARIE 

I  think  he  intends  to  use  the  park  for  his  last  act. 

AMADEUS 

Is  that  so?  If  he  would  only  bring  it  to  me.  .  .  . 
I  mean  the  last  act.  I  want  to  take  it  with  me  on 
my  tour. 

MARIE 

Do  you  think  you'll  find  time  to  work? 

AMADEUS 

Why  not?  I  am  always  working.  And  I  have 
never  in  my  life  been  more  eager  about  it.  I, 
too,  am  having  a  brilliant  period.  For  years  I 
have  not  been  doing  better.  And  I  am  no  less  indus- 
trious than  Cecilia.     With  the  difference  that  regu- 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  187 

lar  hours  are  not  in  my  line — nine  to  nine-forty- 
fivc,  twelve  to  twelve-thirty,  and  so  on.  But  30U  ask 
Albert !  When  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed  ex- 
hausted, in  that  inn  at  the  Fedaja  Pass,  I  sat  down 
and  finished  the  instrumentation  for  the  Copriccio 
in  my  Fourth. 
CHAMBERMAID  {enter s  with  a  couple  of  letters  and  goes 
out  again) 

AMADEUS 

You'll  pardon  me,  my  dear  Marie? 

MARIE 

Please  don't  mind  me.      {She  rises) 

AMADEUS 

A  letter  from  Gecilia,  written  yesterday,  before  the 
performance.     I  have  had  letters  like  this  every  day. 

MARIE 

Go  right  on  and  read  it,  please. 

AMADEUS  {having  opened  the  letter) 

Oh,  there's  plenty  of  time.  In  anotlier  hour  Cecilia 
will  be  telling  me  all  that's  in  it.  .  .  .  {He  opens  the 
other  letter,  runs  through  it,  and  flings  it  away) 
How  stupid  people  are  .  .  .  how  stupid !  .  .  .  Ugli ! 
And  mean!  {He  glances  through  Cecilia^s  letter 
once  more)  Cecilia  writes  me  about  a  reception  at 
the  house  of  the  Director.  .  .  .  Sigismund  was 
there,  too.  Yes,  you  know,  of  course,  that  Sigis- 
mund has  been  in  Berlin.'' 

MARIE  {embarrassed) 

I  ...   I  thought   ...   Or  rather,  I  knew   .   .   . 

AMADEUS  {with  an  air  of  superiority) 

Well,  well — there  is  no  cause  for  embarrassment  in 
that.  Don't  you  consider  tlic  Prince  an  uncommonly 
sympathetic  person.'' 


188  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

MARIE 

Yes,  he's  very  pleasant.  But  I  can  assure  you, 
Amadeus,  that  he  came  only  once  to  our  place  in  the 
Pustertal,^  and  he  didn't  stay  more  than  two  hours. 

AMADEUS  (laughing) 

And  what  if  he  had  stayed  a  week  .  .  .  ?  Really, 
Marie,  you're  very  funny ! 

MARIE  {shyly) 

May  I  tell  you  something.'' 

AMADEUS 

Anything  you  want,  Marie. 

MARIE 

I'm  convinced  that  you  two  will  find  each  other  again 
in  spite  of  all. 

AMADEUS 

Find  each  other  ....''  Who  should?  Cecilia  and 
I?  {He  rises)  Find  each  other?  {He  walks  to 
and  fro,  hut  stops  finally  near  Marie)  A  sensible 
woman  like  you,  Marie — you  ought  to  understand 
that  Cecilia  and  I  have  never  lost  each  other  in  any 
way.  I  think  it's  very  singular.  .  .  .  {He  strolls 
hack  and  forth  again)  Oh,  you  must  understand 
that  the  relationship  between  her  and  me  is  so  beau- 
tiful— that  now  only  it  has  become  such  that  we 
couldn't  imagine  anything  more  satisfactory.  We 
don't  have  to  find  each  other  again !  Look  here  now 
• — here  are  her  letters.  She  has  boon  writing  me 
from  eight  to  twelve  pages  every  day — frank,  ex- 
haustive letters,  as  you  can  only  write  them  to  a 
friend — or  rather,   only   to   your  very   best   friend. 

'  A  valley  along  the  river  Rienz,  marking  the  northern  limit  of 
the  Dolomite  ranges  in  the  Tirol. 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  189 

It  is  simply  impossible  to  imagine  a  finer  relation- 
ship. 

ALBERT  (entering  from  the  right) 
Good  evening. 

AMADEUS 

You're  rather  late  in  getting  here. 

ALBERT 

Good  evening,  Marie.      (He  pats  her  patronizingly 
on  the  check) 

AMADEUS 

There  will  hardly  be  time  for  work  now.  Cecilia 
will  be  here  very  soon. 

ALBERT 

Oh,  we  can  always  put  in  half  an  hour.  I  have 
brought  along  some  notes  for  the  third  act. 

MARIE 

I  think  I  shall  go  home,  as  the  boys  will  be  expecting 
me  soon. 

ALBERT 

All  right,  child,  you  go  on  home. 

AMADEUS 

Why  don't  you  stay  instead.''  I  am  sure  Cecilia  will 
be  glad  to  see  you.  And  then  Albert  can  take  you 
home.  You  might  get  Peter  to  entertain  you  in 
the  meantime.  .  .  .  Or  would  you  prefer  to  stay 
here  and  listen.'' 

ALBERT 

No,  child,  you  had  better  go  in  to  Peter.  Especially 
as  Mr.  von  Rabagas  doesn't  appear  in  the  third  act 
— so  you  won't  be  losing  much. 

MARIE 

I'll  leave  you  alone.     Bye-bye!     (She  goes  out) 


190  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

ALBERT 

Now  let's  fall  to!  (He  brings  out  some  notes  from 
one  of  his  pockets  and  begins  to  read)  "The  stage 
shows  an  open  stretch  of  rolling  ground  that  slopes 
gradually  toward  the  footlights.  In  the  background 
stands  a  villa,  with  marble  steps  leading  up  to  it. 
Still  farther  back,  the  sea  can  be  felt  rather  than 
seen."  (Bowing  to  Amadeus)  "A  tall  plane  tree 
in  full  leaf  stands  in  the  center  of  the  stage." 
AMADEUS  (laugJiing) 

So  you  have  got  it  there? 

ALBERT 

It's  meant  as  a  compliment  to  you. 

AMADEUS 

Many  thanks. 
ALBERT  (after  a  pause) 

Tell  me,  Amadeus,  is  it  actually  true  that  the  Count 
has  become  reconciled  with  the  Countess  after  his 
duel  with  the  painter  ? 

AMADEUS 

I   don't   know.      For   a   good   long   while    I   haven't 
seen  the  Countess  except  at  the  opera.      (He  rises 
and  begins  walking  to  and  fro  again) 
ALBERT  (shaking  his  head) 

There's  something  uncanny  about  that  affair. 

AMADEUS 

Why?  I  think  it's  quite  commonplace.  A  husband 
who  has  discovered  his  wife's  (sarcastically^)  "dis- 
loyalty" .   .  . 

ALBERT 

That  wasn't  the  point.  But  that  he  discovers  it 
only  six  months  too  late,  when  his  wife  is  already 
deceiving  him  with  another  man. — There  would  have 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  191 


been  nothing  peculiar  about  tlie  Count  having  a 
figlit  witli  vou.  But  the  case  is  much  more  com- 
plicated. Here  we  have  a  young  man  all  but  killed 
because  of  an  affair  that  is  long  past.  And  in  the 
meantime  you  are  left  perfectly  unmolested — or  have 
been  so  far,  at  least. 
AMADEUS  (walking  as  before) 

ALBERT 

Do  you  know,  what  I  almost  regret — looking  at  it 
from  a  higher  viewpoint.?  That  the  painter  is  not 
a  man  of  genius  .  .  .  and  that  the  Count ,  hasn't 
reaUij  killed  him.  That  would  have  put  something 
tremendously  tragi-comical  into  the  situation.  And 
that's  what  would  have  happened,  if  .  .  .  he  up 
there  had  a  little  more  wit.   .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

How.?     What  do  you  mean  by  that,? 

ALBERT 

I  mean,  if  I  had  been  writing  the  play  .  .   . 
AMADEUS  {makes  a  movement  as  if  hearing  some  noise 
outside) 

ALBERT 

What  is  it.? 

AMADEUS 

I  thought  I  heard  a  carriage,  but  it  was  nothing. 
{He  looks  at  his  watch)  And  it  wouldn't  be  possi- 
ble yet  .  .  .  You  read  on,  please.  {Once  more  he 
begins  walking  back  and  forth) 

ALBERT 

You're  very  preoccupied.  I'll  rather  come  back  to- 
morrow mornincr. 

AMADEUS 

No,  go  on.     I  am  not  at  all  .   .   . 


192  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

ALBERT  (rising) 

Let  me  tell  you  something,  Amadeus.  If  it  would 
please  you — and  it  would  be  all  one  to  me,  you  know 
— I  could  go  Avith  you. 

AMADEUS 

Where?  .   .  .  What  do  you  mean? 

ALBERT 

On  your  tour.  For  a  week,  at  least,  or  a  fortnight, 
I  should  be  very  glad  to  stay  by  you  .  .  .  {affec- 
tionately) until  you  have  got  over  the  worst. 

AMADEUS 

But  .  .  .  !  Good  gracious,  do  you  think  it's  be- 
cause of  the  Countess  .  .  .  ?  Why,  that  story  is 
over  long  ago. 

ALBERT 

Which  I  know.  And  I  know,  too,  that  you  are  now 
trying  other  means  of  making  yourself  insensible. 
But  I  see  perfectly  well  that,  under  the  circum- 
stances, you  can't  succeed  all  at  once. 

AMADEUS 

What  circumstances  are  you  talking  of  anyhow? 

ALBERT 

My  dear  fellow,  I  should  never  have  dreamt  of  for- 
cing myself  into  your  confidence,  but  as  the  matter 
has  already  got  into  the  papers  .   .  . 

AMADEUS 

What  has  got  into  the  papers? 

ALBERT 

Haven't  you  read  that  thing  in  the  New  Journal 
to-night? 

AMADEUS 

What  thing? 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  193 


ALBERT 

That    Cecilia    and    Prince    Sigismund  .   .   .   But,    of 
course,  you  are  familiar  with  the  main  facts? 

AMADEUS 

I'm  familiar  with  nothing.  What  is  in  the  Now 
Journal? 

ALBERT 

Just  a  brief  notice — without  any  names,  but  not  to 
be  mistaken.  ...  It  reads  something  like  this: 
"One  of  our  foremost  artists,  who  has  just  been  cele- 
brating triumphs  in  the  metropolis  of  an  adjoining 
state  .  .  .  until  now  the  wife  of  a  gifted  musician" 
...  or  perhaps  it  was  "highly  gifted"  .  .  .  and  so 
on  .  .  .  and  so  on  .  .  .  "and  a  well-known  Austrian 
gentleman,  belonging  to  our  oldest  nobility,  intend, 
we  are  told   ..."  and  so  on   .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

Cecilia  and  the  Prince  ...    ?! 

ALBERT 

Yes  .  .  .  and  then  a  hint  that,  in  such  a  case,  it 
would  not  prove  very  difficult  to  obtain  a  dispensa- 
tion from  the  Pope  .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

Has  everybody  gone  crazy?  ...  I  can  assure  you 
that  not  a  word  of  it  is  true !  .  .  .  You  won't  be- 
lieve me?  ...  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  would  deny 
it,  if  .  .  .  Or  do  3'ou  actually  mean  that  Cecilia 
might  have  .  .  .  from  me  .  .  .  Oh,  dear,  and  you 
are  supposed  to  be  a  friend  of  ours,  a  student  of 
the  human  soul,  and  a  poet ! 

ALBERT 

I  beg  your  pardon,  but  after  what  has  happened  it 
would  not  seem  improbable  .   .   . 


194  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

AMADEUS 

Not  improbable  .  .  .  ?  It  is  simply  impossible ! 
Cecilia  has  never  thought  of  it ! 

ALBERT 

However,  it  ought  not  to  surprise  you  that  such  a 
rumor  has  been  started. 

AMADEUS 

Nothing  surprises  me.  But  I  feel  as  if  the  relation- 
ship between  Cecilia  and  myself  were  being  pro- 
faned by  tittle-tattle  of  that  kind. 

ALBERT 

Pioneers  like  yourself  must  scorn  the  judgment  of 
the  world.  Else  they  are  in  danger  of  being  proved 
mere  braggarts. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  I  am  no  pioneer.  The  whole  thing  is  a  private 
arrangement  between  me  and  Cecilia,  which  gives  us 
both  the  greatest  possible  comfort.  Be  kind  enough, 
at  least,  to  tell  the  people  who  ask  you,  that  we  are 
not  going  to  be  divorced — but  that,  on  the  other 
hand,  we  are  not  deceiving  each  other,  as  it  is  as- 
serted in  these  scrawls  with  which  I  have  been  bom- 
barded for  some  time.  {He  indicates  the  letter 
which  arrived  at  the  same  time  as  Cecilia's) 
ALBERT  (picks  Up  the  letter,  glances  through  it,  and 
puts  it  away  again)  An  anonymous  letter  .  .  .  .? 
Well,  that's  part  of  it.   .   .  . 

AMADEUS 

Explain  to  them,  please,  that  there  can  be  no  talk 
of  deceit  where  no  lies  have  been  told.  Tell  them 
that  Cecilia's  and  my  way  of  keeping  faith  with  each 
other  is  probably  a  much  better  one  than  that  prac- 
ticed in   so  many   other  marriages,  where   both  go 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  195 

their  own  ways  all  day  long  and  have  nothing  in 
common  but  the  niglit.  You  arc  a  poet,  are  you 
not — and  a  student  of  the  human  soul?  Well,  why 
don't  you  make  all  this  clear  to  the  people  who  refuse 
to  understand? 

AT.BEUT 

To  convey  all  that  would  prove  a  rather  compli- 
cated process.  But  if  it  means  so  much  to  you,  I 
could  make  a  play  out  of  it.  Then  they  would  have 
no  trouble  in  comprehending  this  new  kind  of  mar- 
riage— at  least  between  the  hours  of  eight-thirty 
and  ten. 

AMADEUS 

Are  you  so  sure  of  that? 

ALBERT 

Absolutely.  In  a  play  I  can  make  the  case  much 
clearer  than  it  is  presented  by  reality — without  any 
of  those  superfluous,  incidental  side  issues,  which  are 
so  confusing  in  life.  The  main  advantage  is,  how- 
ever, that  no  spectators  attend  the  entr'acts,  so  that 
I  can  do  just  what  I  please  with  you  during  those 
periods.  And  besides,  I  shall  make  you  offer  an 
analogy  illuminating  the  whole  case. 

AMADEUS 

An  analogy,  you  say  .  .  .   ? 

ALBERT 

Yes,  analogies  always  have  a  very  soothing  effect. 
You  will  remark  to  a  friend — or  whoever  may  prove 
handy — something  like  this :  "What  do  you  want 
me  to  do  anyhow?  Suppose  that  Cecilia  and  I  were 
living  in  a  nice  house,  where  we  felt  perfectly  com- 
fortable, and  which  had  a  splendid  view  that  pleased 
us  very   much,   and   a   wonderful   garden   where   wo 


196  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

liked  to  take  walks  together.  And  suppose  that  one 
of  us  should  feel  a  desire  sometime  to  pick  straw- 
berries in  the  woods  beyond  the  fence.  Should  that 
be  a  reason  for  the  other  one  to  raise  a  cry  all  at 
once  about  faithlessness,  or  disgrace,  or  betrayal? 
Should  that  force  us  to  sell  the  house  and  garden,  or 
make  us  imagine  that  we  could  never  more  look  out 
of  the  window  together,  or  walk  under  our  splendid 
trees  ?  Merely  because  our  strawberries  happened  to 
be  growing  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  ..." 

AMADEUS 

And  you  would  make  me  say  that? 

ALBERT 

Do  you  fear  it's  too  brilliant  for  you? — Oh,  that 
wouldn't  occur  to  anybody.  Trust  me  to  fix  it.  In 
such  a  play  I  can  do  nothing  wliatever  with  your 
musical  talent.  You  sec,  I  can't  let  you  conduct 
your  symphony  for  the  benefit  of  the  public.  And 
so  I  get  both  myself  and  you  out  of  it  by  putting 
into  your  character  a  little  more  sense  and  energy 
and  consistency  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

Than  God  has  given  me  originally. 

AI.BERT 

Well,  it's  not  very  hard  to  compete  with  Him ! 

AMADEUS 

I  shall  certainly  be  curious   about  one  thing:  how 

you  mean  to  end  that  play. 
ALBERT  (after  a  brief  pause) 

Not  very  happily,  my  dear  fellow. 
AMADEUS  (a  little  staggered) 

Why? 


f 


ACT  n]  INTERMEZZO  197 

ALBERT 

It  is  characteristic  of  all  transitional  periods,  that 
a  conflict  which  might  not  exist  to  a  later  genera- 
tion, must  end  tragically  the  moment  a  fairly  de- 
cent person  becomes  involved  in  it. 

AMADEUS 

But  there  is  no  conflict. 

ALBERT 

I  shall  not  shirk  the  duty  of  inventing  one. 

AMADEUS 

Suppose  you  wait  a  little  while  yet  .  .  .  ?  Per- 
haps life  itself  might  .   .   . 

ALBERT 

My  dear  chap,  I  am  not  at  all  interested  in  what 
may  be  done  with  us  by  this  ridiculous  reality  which 
has  to  get  along  without  stage  manager  or  prompter 
— this  reality  which  frequently  never  gets  to  the 
fifth  act,  merely  because  the  hero  happens  to  be 
struck  on  the  head  by  a  brick  in  the  second.  I  make 
the  curtain  rise  when  the  plot  takes  a  diverting  turn, 
and  I  drop  it  the  moment  I  have  proved  myself  in 
the  right. 

AMADEUS 

Please,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  forget  when  writing 
your  play,  to  introduce  a  figure  on  which  reality  in 
this  case  has  lavished  much  more  care  than  on  the 
hero — I  mean,  the  fool. 

ALBERT 

You  can't  insult  me  in  that  wa}'.     I  have  always  re- 
garded myself  as  closely  akin  to  him. 
[Marie  enters  with  little  Peter  and  the  Governess. 

PETER 

Mamma  is  coming! 


198  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

MARIE 

The  carriage  has  just  stopped  outside. 

GOVEKNESS 

It  was  impossible  to  make  the  boy  stay  in  bed. 

ALBERT  ^ 

And  look  at  the  fine  flowers  he  has  got  I 

PETER 

That's  for  mamma ! 
AMADEUS  {takes  a  flower  out  of  the  bunch) 

I  hope  you  permit,  sonny  .   .   . 
CECILIA   (enters  followed  by  the  Chambermaid) 

Good    evening! — Oh,    are    you    here,    too?      That's 

awfully  nice! 

PETER 

Mamma !— Flowers ! 
CECILIA  (picks  him  up  and  kisses  him) 

My  boy!     My  boy!     (Then  she  shakes  hands  with 

the  rest) 
AMADEUS  (handing  her  the  single  flower) 

Peter  let  me  have  one,  too. 

CECILIA 

Thanks.  (She  shakes  hands  with  him;  then  to  the 
chambermaid)  Get  my  things  out  of  the  carriage, 
please.  The  coachman  will  help  you.  He  has  been 
paid  already. 

CHAMBERMAID    (gOCS  OUt) 

CECILIA  (taking  off  her  hat) 

Well,  Marie.?  .  .  .  (To  the  other  two)  Can  it  be 
possible  that  you  have  been  working  .f* 

ALBERT 

We  have  tried. 
CECILIA  (to  the  governess) 

Has  he  behaved  like  a  little  man.f* 


ACT  n]  INTERMEZZO  199 

PETER 

Indeed   I  have !     Have   you   brought  anything   for 
me? 

CECILIA 

Of  course.     But  you  won't  get  it  until  to-morrow 
morning. 

PETER 

Why  not.? 

CECILIA 

Because   I    am   too    tired    to    unpack.      To-morrow, 
wlien  you  wake  up,  you'll  find  it  on  your  little  table. 

PETER 

What  is  it.? 

CECILIA 

You'll  see  by  and  by  .  .  . 

PETER 

Is  my  little  table  big  enough  for  it.? 

CECILIA 

We'll  hope  so. 

AMADEUS  (zvho  is  leaning  against  the  piano,  keeps  look- 
ing at  her  all  the  time) 

CECILIA  {pretends  not  to  notice  him) 

ALBERT 

You're  looking  splendid. 

CECILIA 

I'm  a  little  bit  worn  out. 

AMADEUS 

You  must  be  hungry. 

CECILIA 

Not  at  all.  We  had  something  to  cat  in  the  dining 
car.  Almost  everybody  did.  But  I  do  want  a  cup 
of  tea.  (To  the  governess)  Will  j'ou  see  to  it, 
please  ? 


200  INTERMEZZO  [act  ii 

AMADEUS 

Let  me  have  a  cup,  too,  and  please  see  that  I  get  a 
few  slices  of  cold  meat. 

GOVERNESS 

I  have  given  orders  for  it  already.     {She  goes  out) 

CECILIA 

Have  you  really  been  waiting  for  me  with  the  sup- 
per .f* 

AMADEUS 

No  ...  I  haven't  been  waiting.  I  .  .  .  simply 
never  thought  of  it. 

CECILIA  {to  Albert  and  Marie) 
Why  don't  you  sit  down.'' 

ALBERT 

No,  we  are  going,  my  dear  Cecilia.  Let  me  con- 
gratulate you  with  all  my  heart — that  will  be  enough 
for  to-day. 

MARIE 

You  have  celebrated  regular  triumphs,  they  say? 

CECILIA 

Well,  it  wasn't  bad.  {To  Amadeus)  Did  you  get 
my  telegram.'* 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  it  pleased  me  tremendously. 

CECILIA 

Think  of  it,  children !  After  the  performance  I  was 
commanded  to  appear  in  the  box  of  His  Majesty! 

ALBERT 

Commanded  .  .  .  ?  Invited,  I  hope  you  mean ! 
Neither  emperor  nor  king  has  the  right  to  command 
you. 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  201 

CECILIA 

You  old  anarchist!  But  what  does  it  matter?  One 
goes  to  the  box  nevertheless.  And  you  would  have 
done  that,  too. 

ALBERT 

Why  not?  One  must,  if  possible,  study  every  form 
of  existence  at  close  quarters. 

AMADEUS 

And  what  did  the  Emperor  have  to  say? 

CECILIA 

He  was  very  complimentary.  Had  never  seen  a  bet- 
ter Carmen. 

ALBEKT 

The  very  next  thing  he'll  order  an  opera  for  you 
from  some  Spaniard.^ 
GOVERNESS  (enters) 

The  tea  will  be  here  in  a  moment. 

AMADEUS 

Now  you  must  get  back  to  bed,  Peter.     It's  late. 
GOVERNESS  (wauts  to  take  the  hoy  away) 

PETER 

No,  mamma  must  take  me  to  bed  as  when  I  was  a 
little  baby. 

CECILL\ 

Come  on  then ! — Mercy  me,  how  heavy  you  have 
grown.     {Goes  out  with  Peter  and  the  governess) 

MARIE 

My,  but  she  is  pretty ! 

AMADEUS 

Haven't  you  discovered  that  before? 

'  This  refers  to  a  habit  of  Emperor  Willintn's,  from  whom  the 
Italian  composer,  Leoncavallo,  among  others,  once  received  such 
an  order. 


202  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 


ALBERT 

Well,  good-by  then! 

AMADEUS 

Until  to-morrow.     I  shall  be  expecting  you  early — 
between  nine  and  ten. 

MARIE  (to  Amadeus  as  she  is  going  out) 

Don't  you  regret  having  to  leave  her  again  at  once.'' 

AMADEUS 

Duty,  my  dear  Marie  .  .  . 
CECILIA  (returning) 

Oh,   are   you   really   going? — Good-by   then — for   a 

little  while ! 

{^Albert  and  Marie  go  out. 
CECILIA  (going  to  the  fireplace) 

Home  again!     (She  sits  down) 
AMADEUS  (near  the  door  and  speaking  rather  shyly) 

It's  a  question  whether  it  can  please  you  as  much  as 

it  does  me. 
CECILIA  (holds  out  her  hand  to  him) 
AMADEUS  (takes  her  hand  and  kisses  it;  then  he  seats 

himself)     Tell  me  all  about  it. 

CECILIA 

What  am  I  to  tell.?  I  haven't  left  anything  untold 
— or  hardly  anything. 

AMADEUS 

Well  ... 

CECILIA 

Getting  home  every  night — and  it  was  quite  late  at 
times,  as  you  know — I  sat  down  and  wrote  to  you. 
I  wish  you  had  been  equally  explicit. 

AMADEUS 

But  I  have  written  you  every  day,  too. 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  203 

CECILIA 

Nevertheless,  my  dear,  it  seems  to  me  you  must  have 
lots  to  add.  {With  a  laugh)  To  many  things  you 
have  referred  in  a  strikingly  casual  fashion. 

AMADEUS 

I  might  say  the  same  to  you. 

CECILIA 

No,  you  can't.  My  letters  have  practically  been 
diaries.  And  that's  more  than  could  be  said  of 
yours. — Well,  Amadeus  .  .  .  ?  Without  frankness 
the  whole  situation  becomes  meaningless,  I  should 
say. 

AMADEUS 

What  is  there  to  be  cleared  up? 

CECILIA 

Is  it  really  all  over  with  Philine.'' 

AMADEUS 

That  was  all  over — (rising)  before  you  left.  And 
you  know  it.  I  really  don't  think  it's  necessary  to 
discuss  bygone  matters. 

CECILIA 

Will  she  be  able  to  stay  in  the  company,  by  the  way 
— after  this  scandal  in  connection  with  your — par- 
don me! — predecessor.'' 

AMADEUS 

Everything  has  been  arranged,  I  hear.  And  she 
has  even  made  up  with  her  husband  again. 

CECILIA 

Is  that  so? — That's  rather  unpleasant,  don't  you 
think?  At  bottom,  it  matters  very  little  then  to 
have  the  story  all  over.  In  the  case  of  a  man  who 
has  the  disconcerting  habit  of  not  finding  out  cer- 
tain things  until  months  afterward  .   .  . 


204  INTERMEZZO  [act  u 

AMADEUS 

It  is  better  not  to  think  of  such  things. 

CECILIA 

Has  she  any  letters  of  yours? 
AMADEUS  {having  thought  for  a  moment) 
Only  the  one  in  which  I  bade  her  farewell. 

CECILIA 

That  might  be  enough.  Why  haven't  yoa  demanded 
it  back.? 

AMADEUS 

How  could  I.'' 

CECILIA 

How  frivolous  you  are!  Yes,  frivolous  is  just  the 
word.  {Putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder)  Now 
it's  possible  to  talk  of  a  thing  like  this,  Amadeus. 
Formerly  you  might  have  misunderstood  such  a  re- 
mark— taking  it  for  jealousy,  or  something  like 
that.  .  .  .  But,  really,  I  do  hope  you  don't  get 
mixed  up  in  any  more  affairs  of  that  kind.  I  don't 
like  to  be  scared  to  death  all  the  time  on  behalf  of 
my  best  friend.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I 
begrudge  you — of  that  you  may  be  sure.  But  get- 
ting killed  for  the  sake  of  somebody  else — that's 
carrying  the  joke  a  little  too  far! 

AMADEUS 

I  promise  you,  that  you'll  no  longer  have  to  be 
scared  to  death  on  my  behalf. 

CECILIA 

I  hope  SO.  Otherwise  I  must  leave  you  to  take  care 
of  yourself. — And  seriously  speaking,  Amadeus,  I 
hope  you  don't  forget  that  your  hfe  has  been  pre- 
served for  more  sensible  and  more  important  things 
— that  you  have  a  lot  more  to  do  in  this  world. 


J 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  205 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  that's  what  I  feel.     I  don't  think  I  have  ever 
felt  it  so  strongly  in  all  my  life.     (Radiantly)     My 
symphony  .   .  . 
CECILIA  {eagerly) 
...  is  done.'' 

AMADEUS 

It  is,  Cecilia.  And  ...  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you 
about  it  to-day,  but  it  leaves  me  no  peace  .   .   . 

CECILIA 

Well,  what  is  it? 

AMADEUS 

The  chorus  in  the  final  passage — you  know  the  prin- 
cipal theme  of  it  already — it  is  led  and  dominated  by 
a  soprano  solo.  And  that  solo  has  been  written  for 
you. 

CECILIA 

My  revered  Master !  How  proud  your  trust  in  me 
makes  me ! 

AMADEUS 

Don't  make  fun  of  it,  Cecilia,  I  beg  you.  There  is 
nobody  in  the  world  who  can  sing  that  solo  like  you. 
.  .  .  That  solo  is  yours — and  only  yours.  While 
writing  it,  the  ring  of  your  voice  was  in  my  mind. 
Next  February,  as  soon  as  I  get  back,  I  shall  have 
the  symphony  put  on,  and  then  you  must  sing  that 
solo. 

CECILIA 

Next  Feb  .  .  .  '?  With  pleasure,  my  dear  Ama- 
deus — provided  I  am  still  here. 

AMADEUS 

Why.? 


206  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

^-"-  -■       '  ■  '        I.  --■ .  ^  .1  ■  ^. .  —  ' 

CECILIA 

Oh,  you  haven't  heard  everything  yet.  After  the 
performance  last  night  the  Director  had  a  talk  with 
me. 

AMADEUS  (disturbed) 

Well?! — There  was  a  hint  in  the  telegram  about 
brilliant  conditions.  .  .  .  But,  of  course,  they  could 
only  refer  to  the  next  season.'* 

CECILIA 

If  I  can  break  away  from  here,  they  want  me  in 
Berlin  from  the  beginning  of  the  year. 

AMADEUS 

But  you  can't  break  away ! 

CECILIA 

Oh,  if  I  really  want  to.  The  Director  does  not  care 
to  enforce  the  contract. 

AMADEUS 

But  you  don't  want  to,  Cecilia ! 

CECILIA 

That's  a  matter  for  careful  consideration.  I  shall 
be  doing  a  great  deal  better  there. 

AMADEUS 

Beginning  next  Fall,  I  shall- — probably  be  free.  You 
might  wait  that  long,  I  should  think.  Then  we 
could  make  the  move  together.     But  .   .   . 

CECILIA 

It  doesn't  have  to  be  settled  to-day,  Amadeus.  To- 
morrow we  shall  have  time  to  discuss  the  whole  mat- 
ter thoroughly.  Really,  I  am  not  in  a  condition  to 
do  so  to-night. 

AMADEUS 

You  are  tired  .  .  .    ? 


ACT  II ]  INTERMEZZO  207 

CECILIA 

Of  course,  you  must  understand   that.      In   fact,   I 
sliould  very  much  prefer   .   .   .   {She  looks  in  direc- 
tion of  the  door  leading  to  her  own  room) 
CHAMBERMAID  (brijigs  in  the  tea  tray  and  puts  it  on 
a  small  table) 

CECILIA 

Oh,  that's  right! — May  I  pour  you  a  cup,  too? 

AMADEITS 

If  you  please. 
CECILIA  {pours  the  tea;  to  the  chambermaid) 

Open  one  of  the  windows  a  Httle,  will  you.     There's 

such  a  lot  of  cigarette  smoke  in  here. 
CHAMBERMAID  {opcns  the  window  at  the  right) 

AMADEUS 

Won't  it  be  too  cold  for  you.'' 

CECILIA 

Cold.'*     It  has  turned  very  warm  again. 

AMADEUS 

And  how  did  last  night's  performance  go  otherwise? 

CECILIA 

Very  well.     Wedius  in  particular  proved  himself  in- 
imitable again. 

AMADEUS 

You  have  mentioned  him  several  times  in  your  let- 
ters. 

CECILIA 

You  know  him  since  your  Dresden  period,  don't  you? 

AMADEUS 

Yes.     He  has  great  gifts. 

CECILIA 

He  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  too. 


208  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

AMADEUS 

I'm  pleased  to  hear  it. 

CHAMBERMAID   (gOeS  OUt) 

AMADEUS  {helping  himself  to  the  cold  meat) 
Can  I  help  you  to  some? 

CECILIA 

No,  thanks.     I  have  had  all  I  want. 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  you  have  had  your  supper  already — all  of  you, 
or  *'everybody,"  as  you  put  it  a  while  ago. 
CECILIA  (ingenuously) 

I  had  my  supper  with  Sigismund. 

AMADEUS 

Was  he  in  Berlin  all  the  time? 

CECILIA 

He  got  there  two  days  after  me,  as  I  told  you  in 
my  letters. 

AMADEUS 

Of  course— you  have  told  me  everything.  Once  he 
accompanied  you  to  the  National  Gallery. 

CECILIA 

He  also  took  me  to  see  the  Pergamene  marbles.^ 

AMADEUS  (facetiously/) 

You're  doing  a  lot  for  his  general  education,  I  must 
say. — But  I  should  like  to  know  by  what  fraud 
Sigismund  got  himself  into  that  reception  of  the 
Director's. 

CECILIA 

By  what  fraud? 

*  A  large  collection  of  art  works  and  other  antiquities,  recovered 
by  excavations  on  the  site  of  the  ancient  city  of  Pergamon  in 
Asia  Minor,  are  kept  in  the  Pergamene  Museum,  Berlin. 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  209 

AMADEUS 

Well,  you  wrote  me  that  he  crcatccf  a  regular  sensa- 
tion with  those  waltzes  of  his. 

CECILIA 

So  he  did.  But  he  didn't  have  to  use  fraud  to  get 
in.  Being  a  nephew  of  the  Baroness,  there  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  resort  to  such  methods. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  yes,  I  didn't  remember  that. 

CECILIA 

And  by  the  way,  the  Director  asked  very  eagerly 
about  you. 

AMADEUS 

He  thinks  a  great  deal  of  me  .   .  . 
CECILIA  {with  a  smile) 

Yes,  he  really  does.  The  moment  your  new  opera  is 
ready  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

And  so  on!  {He  goes  on  eating)  It  surprises  me, 
however,  that  he  should  ask  i/ou  about  mc. 

CECILIA 

Why  does  that  surprise  you.'' 
AMADEUS  {as  if  meaning  no  offense) 

Well,  it  rather  surprises  me  that  he  should  connect 
our  respective  personalities  to  that  extent.  Hasn't 
Berlin  heard  yet  that  we  are  going  to  be  divorced.'* 

CECILIA 

Why  .   .   .  what  does  that  mean.? 
AMADEUS  {laughing) 

Rumors  to  that  effect  are  afloat. 

CECILIA 

What.?     WMl,  I  declare ! 


210  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  it's  incredible  what  the  popular  gossip  can  in- 
vent. It's  even  in  the  newspapers.  His  Highness 
the  Prince  Sigismund  Maradas-Lohsenstein  is  going 
to  lead  you  to  the  altar.  The  necessary  dispensation 
will  be  furnished  by  the  Pope.     Idiotic — isn't  it.'* 

CECILIA 

Yes. — But,  my  dear,  you  say  nothing  about  what  is 
still  more  idiotic. 

AMADEUS 

And  what  can  that  be? 

CECILIA 

That  you  are  on  the  verge  of  believing  this  piece  of 
idiocy. 

AMADEUS 

I  .  .  .   ?    How  can  you  .  .  .  Oh,  no ! 

CECILIA 

You  haven't  considered,  for  instance,  that  I  am  three 
years  older  than  he. 
AMADEUS  (startled) 

Well,  if  it's  nothing  but  those  three  years  of  differ- 
ence in  .  .  . 

CECILIA 

No,  it  isn't  that.  No,  indeed !  Even  if  I  were 
younger  than  he,  I  should  never  think  of  it. 

AMADEUS 

But  if  his  devotion  should  prove  more  deeply  rooted 
than  you  have  supposed  so  far.'' 

CECILIA 

Not  even  then. 

AMADEUS 

Why? 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  211 

CECILIA 

Why  .   .   .    ?     I  know  that  it  couldn't  last  forever 
anyhow. 

AMADEUS 

Have  you  the  end  in  mind  already? 

CECILIA 

I  am  not  saying  that  I  have  it  in  mind.  .  .  .  But  I 
don't  doubt  it  must  come,  as  it  always  comes. 

AMADEUS 

And   then  .   .   .    ? 
CECILIA  (shrugs  her  shoulders) 

AMADEUS 

And  then? 

CECILIA 

How  could  I  know,  Amadeus?  There  are  prospects 
of  so  many  kinds. 

AMADEUS  (cowering  a  moment  before  those  words) 
Yes,  that's  true.  Life  is  full  of  prospects.  Every- 
where, wherever  you  turn,  there  are  temptations  and 
promises — when  you  have  determined  to  be  free,  and 
to  take  life  lightly,  as  we  have  done.  .  .  .  That's 
what  you  meant,  was  it  not? 

CECILIA 

Yes,  precisely. 

AMADEUS 

Tell  me,  Cecilia  .  .  .  (He  draws  closer  to  her) 
There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  know — whether 
Sigismund  has  any  idea  that  your  mind  is  harboring 
such  tliouglits — which,  after  all,  would  appear 
rather  weird  to  the  other  party  concerned. 


212  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

CECILIA 

Siglsmund  .   .   .    ?     How  can  you  imagine?!     Such 
tilings  you  admit  only  to  your  friends.     {She  gives 
her  hand  to  him) 
AMADEUS  (m  the  same  friendly  manner) 

But  if  he  should  notice  anything  .  .  .  although  I 
think  it  very  improbable  that  he  is  the  kind  of  man 
who  would  .  .  .  But  let  us  suppose  that  he  con- 
cluded from  various  signs  that  some  such  thoughts 
were  passing  through  your  head — would  you  deny 
them,  if  he  asked  you? 

CECILIA 

I  believe  myself  capable  of  it. 

AMADEUS  {with  a  shrinking) 

Oh  .  .  .  Let  me  tell  you,  Cecilia.  .  .  .  You  are  hav- 
ing something  definite  in  mind.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  sure 
of  it.   .   .   .  It's  a  question  of  some  definite  prospect. 

CECILIA  {smiling) 

That  might  be  possible. 

AMADEUS 

What  has  happened,  Cecilia? 

CECILIA 

Nothing. 

AMADEUS 

Then  there  is  danger  in  the  air. 

CECILIA 

Danger  .   .   .    ?     What  could  that  mean  to  us?     To 
him  who  has  no  obligations  there  can  be  no  cause 
for  fear. 
AMADEUS  {taking  her  lightly  by  the  arm) 

Stop  playing  with  words !  I  can  see  through  the 
whole  thing  just  the  same. — I  know!  It  has  been 
brought  home  to  me  by  a  number  of  passages  in  your 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  213 

letters — although  they  ceased  long  ago  to  have  the 
frankness  due  to  our  friendship.  That  new  prospect 
is  Wedius ! 

CECILIA 

In  what  respect  did  my  letters  fail  to  be  frank? 
Didn't  I  write  you  immediately  after  the  "Onyegin" 
performance,  that  there  was  something  fascinating 
about  his  personality? 

AMADEUS 

So  you  have  said  before,  of  many  people.  But  there 
was  never  any  such  prospect  implied  in  it. 

CECILIA 

Everything  begins  to  take  on  new  meanings  when 
you  are  free. 

AMADEUS 

You  are  not  telling  me  everything.  .  .  .  What  has 
happened  ? 

CECILIA 

Nothing  has  happened,  but   (with  sudden  decision) 
if  I  had  stayed  .   .   .  who  knows  .  .  . 
AMADEUS  (seems  to  shrink  back  again;  then  he  walks 
to  and  fro;  finally  he  remains  standing  in  the  hack- 
ground,  near  one  of  the  windows)     Poor  Sigismund ! 

CECILIA 

Why  pity  him  ?    He  knows  nothing  about  it. 
AMADEUS  (resuming  his  superior  tone) 
Is  that  what  draws  3'ou  to  Berlin? 

CECILIA 

No !  .  .  .  Indeed,  no !  The  spell  has  been  broken 
...  it  seems  .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

And  yet  you  talk  of  going  about  New  Year  .   .   . 


214  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

CECILIA  (rising) 

My  dear  Amadeus,  I  am  really  too  tired  to  discuss 
that  matter  to-day.  Now  I  shall  say  good-night  to 
you.  It  is  quite  late.  (She  holds  out  her  hand  to 
him) 

AMADEUS  (faltering) 

Good-night,  Cecilia!  .  .  .  (He  clings  to  her  hand) 
You  have  been  gone  three  weeks.  I  shall  leave  early 
the  day  after  to-morrow — and  when  I  return,  you 
will  be  gone,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  There  can't  be  so  very 
much  to  your  friendship,  if  you  won't  stay  and  talk 
a  while  with  me  under  such  circumstances. 

CECILIA 

What's  the  use  of  being  sentimental?  Leave-takings 
are  famihar  things  to  us. 

AMADEUS 

That's  true.  But  nevertheless  this  will  be  a  new 
kind  of  leave-taking,  and  a  new  kind  of  home-com- 
ing also. 

CECILIA 

Well,  seeing  that  it  had  to  turn  out  this  way  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

But  neither  of  us  ever  imagined  that  it  would  turn 
out  this  way. 

CECILIA 

Oh? 

AMADEUS 

No,  Cecilia,  we  did  not  imagine  it.  The  remarkable 
thing  has  been  that  we  retained  our  faith  in  each 
other  in  the  midst  of  all  doubts,  and  that,  even  when 
away  from,  each  other,  we  used  to  feel  calm  and  con- 
fident far  beyond  what  was  safe,  I  suppose.     But  it 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  215 

was  splendid.  Separation  itself  used  to  have  a  sort 
of  charm  of  its  own — formerly. 

CECILIA 

Naturally.  It  isn't  possible  to  love  in  that  undis- 
turbed fashion  except  when  you  are  miles  apart. 

AMADEUS 

You  may  be  able  to  make  fun  of  it  to-day,  Cecilia, 
but  there  will  never  again  be  anything  like  it — 
neither  for  you  nor  for  me.    You  can  be  sure  of  that. 

CECILIA 

I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do. — But  why  should 
you  all  at  once  begin  to  talk  as  if,  somehow,  every- 
thing would  be  over  between  us  two,  and  as  if  the 
best  part  of  our  life  had  been  irretrievably  lost.'' 
That's  not  the  case,  after  all.  It  cannot  possibly 
be  the  case.  Both  of  us  know  that  we  remain  the 
same  as  before — don't  we — and  that  everything  else 
that  has  happened  to  us,  or  may  happen  to  us,  can 
be  of  no  particular  importance.  .  .  .  And  even  if  it 
should  become  important,  we  shall  always  be  able 
to  join  hands,  no  matter  what  chasms  open  between 
us. 

AMADEUS 

You  speak  very  sensibly,  as  usual. 

CECILIA 

If  you  seduce  ladies  by  the  dozen,  and  if  gentlemen 
shoot  each  other  dead  for  my  sake — as  they  do  for 
the  sake  of  Countess  Philine — what  has  that  to  do 
with  our  friendship? 

AMADEUS 

That's  beyond  contradiction.  Nevertheless,  I  hadn't 
expected — in  fact,  I  think  it  nothing  less  than  ad- 
mirable— your  ability  to  adjust  yourself  to  every- 


216  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

thing — your  way  of  remaining  perfectly  calm  in  the 
midst  of  any  new  experiences  or  expectations. 

CECILIA 

Calm  .  .  .  ?  Here  I  am  ...  by  our  fireplace  .  .  . 
taking  tea  in  your  company.  Here  I  can  and  shall 
always  be  calm.  That's  the  significance  of  our  whole 
life  in  common.  Whatever  may  be  my  destiny  in 
the  world  at  large  will  slip  off  me  when  I  enter  here. 
All  the  storms  are  on  the  outside. 

AMADEUS 

That's  more  than  you  can  be  sure  of,  Cecilia.  Things 
might  happen  that  would  weigh  more  heavily  on  you 
than  you  can  imagine  at  this  moment. 

CECILIA 

I  shall  always  have  the  strength  to  throw  off  things 
according  to  my  will  before  I  come  to  you.  And  if 
that  strength  should  ever  fail  me,  I  shall  come  to 
the  door  and  no  farther. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  no,  you  mustn't!  That  would  not  be  in  keep- 
ing with  our  agreement.  It  is  just  when  life  grows 
heavy  that  I'll  be  here  to  help  you  bear  it. 

CECILIA 

Who  knows  whether  you  will  always  be  ready  to  do 
so.'' 

AMADEUS 

Always — on  my  oath!  No  matter  what  befall  you, 
whether  it  be  sad  or  wretched,  you  can  always  find 
refuge  and  sympathy  with  me.  But  with  all  my 
heart  I  wish  you  may  be  spared  most  of  those  things. 

CECILIA 

That  I  be  spared  .  .  .  ?  No,  Amadeus,  a  wish  like 
that   I    can't    accept.      Hitherto — I    have    lived    so 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  217 

little  hitherto.  And  I  am  longing  for  it.  I  long  for 
all  that's  sad  and  sweet  in  life,  for  all  that's  beau- 
tiful and  all  that's  pitiful.  I  long  for  storms,  for 
perils — for  worse  than  that,  perhaps. 

AMADEUS 

No,  Cecilia,  that's  nothing  but  imagination ! 

CECILIA 

Oh,  no ! 

AMADEUS 

Certainly,  Cecilia.  You  don't  know  very  much  as 
yet,  and  you  imagine  many  things  simpler  and 
cleaner  than  they  are.  But  there  are  things  you 
couldn't  stand,  and  others  of  which  you  are  not  ca- 
pable.— I  know  you,  Cecilia. 

CECILIA 

You  know  mei' — You  know  only  what  I  have  been 
to  you — what  I  have  been  as  your  beloved  and  your 
wife.  And  as  you  used  to  mean  the  whole  world  to 
me — as  all  my  longing,  all  my  tenderness,  was 
bounded  by  you — we  could  never  guess  in  those  days 
what  might  prove  my  destiny  when  the  real  world 
was  thrown  open  to  me. — Even  to-day,  Amadeus,  I 
am  no  longer  the  same  as  before  ...  Or  perhaps  I 
have  always  been  the  same  as  I  am  now,  but  didn't 
know  it  merely.  And  something  has  fallen  away, 
that  used  to  cover  me  up  in  the  past  .  .  .  Yes, 
that's  it:  for  now  I  can  feel  all  those  desires  that 
used  to  pass  me  by  as  if  deflected  by  a  cuirass  of 
insensibilit}'  .  .  .  Now  I  can  feel  how  they  touch  my 
body  and  my  soul,  filling  me  with  qualms  and  pas- 
sions. The  earth  seems  full  of  adventure.  The  sky 
seems  radiant  with  flames.  And  it  is  as  if  I  could 
see  myself  stand  waiting  with  wide-open  arms. 


218  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 


AMADEUS  (as  if  calling  to  somebody  in  flight) 
Cecilia ! 

CECILIA 

What  is  the  matter? 

AMADEUS 

Nothing.  .  .  .  The  words  you  speak  cannot  es- 
trange me  after  all  that  I  have  learned  already.  But 
there  is  a  new  ring  in  your  voice  that  I  have  never 
heard  until  to-day.  Nor  have  I  ever  seen  that  light 
in  your  eyes  until  to-day. 

CECILIA 

That's  what  you  imagine,  Amadeus.  If  that  were 
really  the  case,  then  I  should  feel  the  same  in  regard 
to  you.  But  I  can  see  no  difference  in  you  at  all. 
And  I  can't  imagine  how  you  possibly  could  come 
to  seem  different.  To  other  women  you  may  appear 
a  mischiefmaker — or  a  silly  youth — which  has  prob- 
ably happened  many  times:  but  to  me  you  will  al- 
ways remain  the  same  as  ever.  And  I  have  a  feeling 
that,  in  the  last  instance,  nothing  can  ever  happen 
to  the  Amadeus  I  am  thinking  of. 


AMADEUS 

If  I  could  only  feel  the  same — in  regard  to  you! 
But  such  assurance  is  not  mine.  The  recklessness 
and  greed  with  which  you  make  your  way  into  an 
unknown  world  are  filling  me  with  outright  fear  on 
your  behalf.  The  idea  that  there  are  people  who 
know  as  little  of  you  as  you  of  them  at  this  moment, 
and  to  whom  you  are  going  to  belong  .  .  . 


ACT  ii]  INTERMEZZO  211) 

CECILIA 

I  shall  belong  to  nobody  .  .  .  now,  that  I  am 
free  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

.  .  .  who  are  part  of  your  destiny  already,  as  you 
of  theirs  ...  it  seems  to  me  uncanny.  And  you 
are  no  more  the  Cecilia  I  used  to  love — no !  You  re- 
semble closely  one  who  was  very  dear  to  me,  and  yet 
you  are  not  at  all  the  same  as  she.  No,  you  are 
not  the  woman  that  was  my  wife  for  years.  I  could 
feel  it  the  moment  you  entered  the  place.  .  .  .  The 
connection  between  the  young  girl  who  sank  into  my 
arms  one  evening  seven  years  ago  and  the  woman 
who  has  just  returned  from  abroad  to  dwell  for  a 
brief  while  in  this  house  seems  quite  mysterious.  For 
seven  years  I  have  been  living  with  another  woman — 
with  a  quiet,  kindly  woman — with  a  sort  of  angel 
perhaps,  who  has  now  disappeared.  She  who  came 
to-day  has  a  voice  that  I  have  never  heard,  a  look 
that  I  am  foreign  to,  a  beauty  that  is  strange  to  me 
— a  beauty  not  surpassing  what  the  other  had,  ex- 
cept in  being  more  cruel  possibly — and  yet  a  beauty 
that  should  confer  much  greater  happiness,  I  think. 

CECILIA 

Don't  look  at  me  like  that!  .  .  .  Don't  talk  to  me 
like  that !  .  .  .  That's  not  the  way  to  talk  to  a 
friend !  Don't  forget  I  am  no  more  the  one  I  used 
to  be.  When  you  talk  to  me  like  that,  Amadeus,  it 
is  as  if  here,  too,  I  should  be  fanned  by  those  cajol- 
ing breaths  that  nowadays  so  often  touch  me  like 
caresses — breaths  that  make  life  seem  incredibly 
light,  and  that  make  you  feel  ready  for  so  much  that 
formerly  would  have  appeared  incomprehensible. 


220  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

AMADEUS 

If  you  could  guess,  Cecilia,  liow  jour  words  hurt  me 
and  excite  me  at  the  same  time! 
CECILIA  (brusquely) 

You  must  not  talk  like  that,  Amadeus.  I  don't  want 
it.  Be  sensible,  for  my  sake  as  well  as  your  own. 
Good-night. 

AMADEUS 

Are  you  going,  Cecilia.'' 

CECILIA 

Yes.  And  bear  in  mind  that  we  are  friends  and 
want  to  remain  such. 

AMADEUS 

Bear  in  mind  that  we  have  always  wanted  to  be 
honest.  And  it  is  not  honest — either  for  you  or  me 
— to  say  that  we  stand  face  to  face  as  friends  in  this 
moment  .  .  .  Cecilia — the  one  thing  I  can  feel  at 
this  moment  is  that  you  are  beautiful  .  .  .  beautiful 
as  you  have  never  been  before ! 

CECILIA 

Amadeus,  Amadeus,  are  you  forgetting  all  that  has 
happened  ? 

AMADEUS 

I  could  forget  it — and  so  could  you. 

CECILIA 

Oh,  I  remember — I  remember!     (She  wants  to  leave) 

AMADEUS 

Stay,  Cecilia,  stay !  The  day  after  to-morrow  I 
shall  be  gone — stay ! 

CECILIA 

Please  don't  speak  to  me  like  that!  I  am  no  longer 
what  I  used  to  be — no  longer  proud,  or  calm,  or 
good.     Who  knows  how  little  might  be  needed  to 


ACT  n]  INTERMEZZO  221 

make  me  the  victim  of  a  certain  unscrupulous  se- 
ducer! 

AMADEUS 

Cecilia ! 

CECILIA 

Have  you  so  many  friends  to  lose?  One  is  all  I  have. 
— Good-night.     {She  tries  to  get  away) 

AMADEUS  {seizing  her  by  the  hand) 

Cecilia,  we  have  long  ago  bidden  each  other  good-by 
as  man  and  wife — but  we  have  also  made  up  our 
minds  to  take  life  lightly,  to  be  free,  and  to  lay  hold 
of  every  happiness  that  comes  within  our  reach. 
Should  we  be  mad  enough,  or  cowardly  enough,  to 
shrink  from  the  highest  happiness  ever  offered 
us  .   .  .    ? 

CECILIA 

And  what  would  it  lead  to  .   .   .  my  friend? 

AMADEUS 

Don't  call  me  that !  I  love  you  and  I  hate  you,  but 
in  this  moment  I  am  not  your  friend.  What  you 
have  been  to  me — wife,  comrade  .  .  .  what  do  I 
care  !     To-day  I  want  to  be — your  lover ! 

CECILIA 

You  mustn't  .  .  .    !    You  can't  .  .  .  no  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

Not  vour  lover  then  .  .  .  but  what  is  both  worse 
and  better  .  .  .  the  man  who  takes  you  away  from 
another  one — the  one  witli  whom  you  are  betraying 
someone  else — the  one  who  means  to  you  both  bliss 
and  sin  at  once ! 

CECILIA 

Let  me  loose,  Amadeus. 


222  INTERMEZZO  [act  n 

AMADEUS 

No  more  beautiful  adventure  will  ever  blossom  by 
the  wayside  for  either  one  of  us,  Cecilia,  as  long  as 
we  may  live! 

CECILIA 

And  none  more  dangerous,  Amadeus ! 

AMADEUS 

Wasn't  that  what  you  were  longing  for  .  .  .    ? 

CECILIA 

Good-night,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

Cecilia!  (He  holds  her  fast  and  draws  her  closer  to 
himself) 

CURTAIN 


I 


THE    THIRD    ACT 

The  same  room.  It  is  the  morning  of  the  following 
day.  The  stage  is  empty  at  first.  Then  Amadeus  en- 
ters from  his  room  at  the  left.  He  wears  a  dressing- 
gown,  but  is  otherwise  fully  dressed.  He  passes  slowly 
and  pensively  across  the  room  to  the  writing  desk,  from 
which  he  picks  up  the  waiting  pile  of  letters.  Then  he 
puts  the  letters  down  again.  He  feels  chilly,  looks 
around,  notices  that  a  window  is  open,  and  goes  to 
close  it.  Then  he  stands  listening  for  a  while  at  the 
door  to  Cecilia's  room.  Finally  he  returns  to  the  writ- 
ing desk  and  begins  to  pidl  out  manuscripts  from  its 
drawers. 

AMADEUS 

Let's  get  things  in  order.  .  .  I  wonder  how  this  is 
going  to  turn  out? — I'll  write  her  from  some  place 
along  my  route.  I  shall  never  come  back  here  any 
more.  ...  I  couldn't  stand  it  .  .  .  no,  I  couldn't ! 
(Holding  a  manuscript  in  his  hand)  The  Solo — her 
Solo !  Well,  1  shall  not  be  present  to  hear  her  sing 
it. 
CHAMBERMAID  (entering) 

The  men  are  here  to  take  away  the  trunk.     Here's 
the  check  from  the  expressman. 

AMADEUS 

All  right.    Tell  them  to  use  the  back  stairs  in  taking 
out  the  things. 


224  INTERMEZZO  [act  ra 

CHAMBERMAID    (gOeS    OUt) 
AMADEUS 

.  .  .  When  I  say  good-by  to-morrow,  she  won't 
guess  it  is  forever.  .  .  .  And  the  boy  .  .  .  the 
boy  .  .  .  ?  (He  walks  back  and  forth)  .  .  .  But 
it  has  to  be.  (Abruptly)  I'll  leave  this  very  even- 
ing— not  to-morrow.  Yes,  this  very  evening.  {He 
begins  to  pile  up  sheet  music)  I'll  have  a  talk  with 
the  Director.  If  he  says  no,  I'll  simply  break  away. 
I  won't  come  back  here.  (He  goes  to  Cecilia's  door 
again)  I  suppose  she's  still  asleep.  (He  comes  for- 
ward and  sits  down  on  the  couch,  leaning  his  head 
in  his  hands)  We  have  to  take  lunch  together,  and 
she  won't  guess  that  it  is  for  the  last  time.  .  . 
She  won't  guess.  .  .  .  And  why  not.?  Let  her  find 
out  .  .  .  right  now  ...  I  am  going  to  have  it  out 
with  her.  Yes,  indeed.  (Rising)  One  can't  write 
a  thing  of  that  kind.  I'll  tell  her  everything.  I'll 
tell  her  that  I  can't  bear  it — that  it  drives  me  crazy 
to  think  of  the  other  fellow.  And  she'll  understand. 
And  even  if  she  should  plead  with  me  to  forgive  her 
.  .  .  even  if  she  ...  oh!  (He  goes  to  her  door) 
I  must  tell  her  at  once.  .  .  ,  Oh,  I  feel  like  choking 
her!  .  .  .  Cecilia!  (He  knocks  at  her  door,  but 
gets  wo  answer)  What  does  that  mean?  (He  goes 
into  her  room)  She's  gone!  (He  stays  away  for 
about  half  a  minute  and  comes  back  by  way  of  the 
door  leading  to  the  garden;  then  he  rings)  Where 
can  she  ... 

CHAMBERMAID    (cntcrs) 

AMADEUS  (with  pretended  unconcern) 
Has  my  wife  gone  out? 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  225 

CHAMBERMAID 

Yes,  sir — quite  a  while  ago. 

AMADEUS 

Oh  ...   ? 

CHAMBERMAID 

It  must  be  nearly  two  hours  now.     She  said  she  would 
be  back  about  one  o'clock. 

AMADEUS 

All  right.     Thank  you. 

CHAMBERMAID 

Can  I  bring  in  your  breakfast  now,  sir? 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  3'es — I  had  almost  forgotten.     And  a  cup  of  tea, 
please. 

CHAMBERMAID    (goeS   OUt) 

AMADEUS  {alone) 

Gone !  .  .  •  Well,  there  is  nothing  peculiar  in  that. 
.  .  .  Probably  to  the  opera.  .  .  .  But  why  didn't 
she  tell  me  .  .  .  .''  {He  cowers  suddenly)  To 
him  .  .  .  ?  No,  that  couldn't  be  possible !  Oh,  no ! 
.  .  .  And  why  not?  ...  A  woman  like  her  .  .  . 
There  is  nothing  to  keep  her  from  going  to  him.  .  .  . 
{With  a  threatening  gesture)  If  I  only  had  him 
here!  .  .  .  {With  sudden  inspiration)  But  that's 
what  I  might  .  .  .  that  would  be  .  .  .  To  confront 
him — that's  it !  To  stand  face  to  face  with  him ! 
.  .  .  Thus  more  than  one  thing  might  be  straight- 
ened out.  .  .  .  No,  she  is  not  with  him.  .  .  . 
Where  did  I  get  that  idea  ?  .  .  .  That's  all  over ! 
.  .  .  But  that's  what  I'll  do !  .  .  Either  I  or  he! 
.  .  .  Many  things  might  then  .  .  .  everything 
might  then  be  set  right.  .  .  .  He  or  I !  .  .  .  But  to 
live  on  like  this,  while  he  .  .  .  I'U  go  to  Albert.     It 


226  INTERMEZZO  [act  ni 

must  be  done  this  very  day!     (He  disappears  into 

his  own  room) 
ALBERT  {enters) 
CHAMBERMAID    (follows    him.    Carrying    the    breakfast 

tray)     I'll  tell  the  Master  at  once,  sir.     (She  puts 

the  tray  on  a  small  table  and  goes  out  to  the  left) 
ALBERT  (picks  up  a  moon-shaped  roll  from  the  tray 

and  begins  to  nibble  at  one  of  its  tips) 
AMADEus    (enters,    having   changed   his   dressing-gown 

for  a  coat) 
CHAMBERMAID  (follows  Mm,  passcs  quickly  across  the 

room  and  goes  out) 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  there  you  are! 

ALBERT 

Yes.  I'm  not  too  early,  I  hope?  Are  you  ready? 
I  want  to  read  you  the  third  act.  (He  takes  some 
papers  from  his  overcoat  pocket)  You  know  the 
setting,  of  course— the  park,  the  villa,  the  plane  tree. 
But  first  of  all  I  must  tell  you  something.  Do  you 
remember  Mr.  von  Rabagas,  with  whom  my  wife  fell 
in  love?  I  have  retouched  him  slightly.  He's  going 
to  be  cross-eyed.  And  now  I  am  curious  to  see  what 
Marie's  attitude  will  be  toward  him. 
AMADEUS  (nervously) 

All  right — later.  For  the  moment  there  are  more 
important  things. 

ALBERT 

More  important  .  .  .    ? 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great  service  ...  a 
service  that  will  brook  no  delay.  You  have  to  act 
as  my  second. 


ACT  III]  INTERMEZZO  227 

ALBERT  (rising) 

Your  .  .  .  ?  Twaddle!  You'll  simply  refuse  the 
challenge  !  You're  not  going  to  let  yourself  be  killed 
for  the  sake  of  Madame  Philine — oh,  no ! 

AMADEUS 

It  is  not  a  question  of  Philine.  And  I  have  not  been 
challenged.  I  shall  issue  the  challenge.  And  for  that 
reason  I  want  you  to  look  up  our  friend  Winter  at 
once,  and  then  I  must  trouble  both  of  you  to  call 
on  Prince  Sigismund,  and  tell  him  .   .   . 

ALBERT  (interrupting  him  and  breaking  into  laughter) 
Oh,  Prince  Sigismund ! — Thank  you  ever  so  much ! 

AMADEUS  (surprised) 

What's  the  matter  with  you.f* 

ALBERT 

How  obliging!  You  mean  to  present  me  with 
an  ending  for  the  play  we  concocted  yesterday. 
Thanks.  But  it's  too  banal  for  me — nobody  would 
take  any  stock  in  it.  I  have  thought  of  something 
much  better.  You  are  to  be  poisoned — yes,  sir. 
And  can  you  guess  by  whom.^ — By  a  brand-new  char- 
acter— one  of  the  secret  lovers  of  your  wife. 
AMADEUS  (furiously) 

It  doesn't  interest  me  in  the  least.  Stop  it,  please ! 
I'm  not  making  up  endings  for  your  fool  comedies ! 
This  is  real  life  ...  we  are  right  in  the  midst  of  it ! 

ALBERT 

You  don't  mean  .  .  .  ? !  Well,  if  I  have  to  stand 
this  unseemly  and  ridiculous  interruption  .  .  .  what 
do  you  want  of  me  anyhow? 

AMADEUS 

Haven't  you  understood?  The  two  of  you  are  to 
challenge  Prince  Sigismund  on  my  behalf. 


228  INTERMEZZO  [act  in 

ALBERT 

Prince  Sigismund  ...  on  your  behalf  .  .  .  {He 
bursts  into  laughter) 

AMADEUS 

You  seem  to  think  it  very  funny,  but  I  assure 
you  .  .  . 

ALBERT 

The  point  is  not  that  you  seem  funny  to  me.  It's 
probably  balanced  by  the  fact  that  a  lot  of  people 
who  have  thought  you  funny  until  now,  will  all  of  a 
sudden  think  you  very  sensible  .  .  .  though  they 
ought  to  ask  themselves,  if  they  had  a  little  logic : 
why  should  Mr.  Amadeus  Adams  become  jealous  on 
this  particular  day?  .  .  .  Up  to  the  twenty-third  of 
October  he  was  not,  and  all  at  once,  on  the  twenty- 
third,  he  is  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

A  lot  of  things  have  changed  since  yesterday. 

ALBERT 

Have      changed  .  .  .    ?        Since     yesterday  .  .  .    ? 
Well,  I  declare! 
AMADEUS  {after  a  pause) 

So  that  you  didn't  believe  it  either? 

ALBERT 

To  confess  the  truth — no. 

AMADEUS 

Which  means  that  I  am  living  among  a  lot  of  peo- 
ple who  .  .  . 

ALBERT 

Will  be  in  the  right  ultimately.  Why  should  that 
arouse  your  indignation?  If  we  were  to  live  long 
enough,  every  lie  that's  floating  about  would  proba- 
bly become  true.    Listen  to  those  who  belie  you,  and 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  229 

you  will  know  the  truth  about  yourself.  Gossip 
knows  very  rarely  what  we  are  doing,  but  almost 
always  whither  we  are  drifting. 

AMADEUS 

We  didn't  know  we  were  drifting  this  way — that 
much  you  will  admit,  I  hope. 

ALBERT 

And  yet  it  had  to  come.  Friendship  between  two 
people  of  different  sexes  is  always  dangerous — even 
when  they  are  married.  If  there  is  too  much  mutual 
understanding  between  our  souls,  many  things  are 
swept  along  that  we  would  rather  keep  back;  and 
when  our  senses  are  attracted  mutually,  the  suction 
affects  much  more  of  our  souls  than  we  would  care 
to  have  involved.  That's  a  universal  law,  my  dear 
chap,  for  which  the  profound  uncertainty  of  all 
earthly  relations  between  man  and  woman  must  be 
held  responsible.  And  only  he  who  doesn't  know  it, 
will  trust  himself  or  anybody  else. — If  you  don't 
mind?    {He  begins  to  butter  one  of  the  rolls) 

AMADEUS 

So  you  think  you  understand  .  .  .    ? 

ALBERT 

Of  course!    That's  my  specialty,  don't  you  know? 

AMADEUS 

Well,  if  you  understand  what  has  happened,  and  un- 
derstand it  must  have  happened — then  you  will  also 
understand  that  I  must  face  the  logical  consequences. 

ALBERT 

Logical  consequences  .  .  .  ?  Here  I  am  talking 
wisdom,  and  you  clamor  for  nonsense.  And  that's 
what  you  call  logical  consequences?  .  .  .  INIy  opin- 
ion is  rather,  that  you  are  about  to  behave  like  a 


230  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 

perfect  fool.  Anybody  else  might  do  what  you  now 
propose:  you  are  the  only  one  who  mustn't.  For 
when  you  propose  such  a  thing,  it  becomes  illogical, 
ungenerous,  not  to  say  dishonest.  You  want  to  call 
a  man  to  account  for  something  which,  as  he  sees  it, 
has  been  declared  explicitly  permissible.  ...  In  his 
place  I  should  laugh  in  your  face.  If  anybody  has 
the  right  to  be  indignant  here,  and  to  demand  an 
account,  it  is  the  Prince  himself,  and  nobody  else — 
as  he  has  not  deceived  you,  but  you  him. 

AMADEUS 

Well,  that's  all  one,  as  he  undoubtedly  will  demand 
an  account. 

ALBERT 

To  do  so,  he  must  know. 

AMADEUS 

I'll  see  to  that. 

ALBERT 

You  mean  to  tell  him? 

AMADEUS 

If  you  hold  it  the  shortest  road  to  what  I  have  in 
mind  .  .  .    ? 

ALBERT 

There's  a  man  of  honor  for  you !  And  is  that  the 
discretion  you  owe  the  woman  you  love,  do  you 
think? 

AMADEUS 

Call  me  illogical,  ungenerous,  indiscreet — anything 
you  please !  I  can't  help  myself !  I  love  Cecilia — do 
you  hear?  And  I  want  to  go  on  living  with  her.  But 
I  can't  do  so  until  some  sort  of  amends  have  been 
made  for  the  past — in  my  own  eyes,  in  hers,  and — 
I  confess  it — in  the  eyes  of  the  world.     Sigismund 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  231 

and  I  must  meet,  man  to  man — nothing  else  can  end 
my  trouble. 

ALBERT 

And  how  can  it  make  the  slightest  difference  that  you 
two  shoot  off  your  guns  in  the  air? 

AMADEUS 

One  of  us  must  out  of  the  way,  Albert !  .  .  .  Won't 
you  understand  at  last? 

ALBERT 

Now,  my  dear  chap,  that's  carrying  it  a  little  too 
far!  All  the  time  I  have  thought  you  were  talking 
of  a  duel — and  now  I  find  that  you  are  after  his  hfe ! 

AMADEUS 

Later  on  you  may  feel  sorry  that  you  could  not 
refrain  from  inept  jesting  in  a  moment  like  this  even. 
The  case  is  urgent,  Albert.  Please  make  up  your 
mind. 

ALBERT 

And  suppose  he  should  refuse? 

AMADEUS 

He  is  a  nobleman. 

ALBERT 

He  is  religious.  His  father  is  one  of  the  leaders  of 
the  Clerical  Party  in  the  Upper  House  and  a  vice- 
president  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Dueling. 

AMADEUS 

Well,  such  things  are  not  inherited.  And  if  he  won't, 
I  shall  know  how  to  make  him.  There's  no  other  way 
out  of  it.  There  can  be  no  other  alternative,  if  I 
am  to  go  on  living — witli  or  without  her.  That  will 
set  everything  right,  but  nothing  else  will.  It's  the 
one  thing  that  can  clear  the  air  about  us.    Until  it  is 


232  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 

over,  we  dare  not  belong  to  each  other  again  or — be 
happy. 

ALBERT 

I  hope  Cecilia  won't  insist  on  killing  off  Philine  and 
a  few  others.  That  would  be  just  as  sensible,  but 
would  complicate  the  situation  a  great  deal. 

AMADEUS 

Won't  you  go,  please ! 

ALBERT 

Yes,  I  am  going.  .  .  .  And  how  about  our  opera? 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  we'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  talk  of  that.  How- 
ever, just  to  reassure  you — all  that  is  finished  lies 
here  in  the  second  drawer,  everything  properly  ar- 
ranged. 

ALBERT 

And  who  is  to  compose  the  third  act-f* 

AMADEUS 

It  can  be  given  as  a  fragment,  with  some  kind  of 
ballet  as  a  filler. 

ALBERT 

Right  you  are !  Something  like  "Harlequin  as  Elec- 
trician," or  "Forget-me-not."     {^He  goes  out) 

AMADEUS  {remains  alone  for  a  while;  at  -first  he  seems 
to  ponder  on  something ;  then  he  returns  to  the  writ- 
ing desk  and  falls  to  work  on  his  papers;  a  knock 
is  heard  at  the  door  leading  to  the  garden)  What 
is  it? 

PETER  {outside) 

It's  me,  papa.     Can  I  come  in? 

AMADEUS 

Certainly,  Peter.     Come  on. 


ACT  III]  INTERMEZZO  233 

GOVERNESS  {entering  with  Peter) 
Good  morning. 

AMADEUS 

Good  morning.  (He  kisses  Peter)  Is  it  not  a  little 
too  cold  for  him  out  there.'' 

GOVERNESS 

He's  very  warmly  dressed,  and  besides  the  sun  is 
shining  beautifully. 

PETER 

Papa,  have  you  seen  what  mamma  brought  me? 

AMADEUS 

What  is  it.? 

PETER 

A  theater — a  big  theater! 

AMADEUS 

Is  that  so.''     And  you  have  got  it  already.? 

PETER 

Of  course.  It's  over  there  in  the  summer-house. 
Would  you  care  to  look  at  it.? 

AMADEUS  {glances  inquiringly  at  the  governess^ 

GOVERNESS 

Madame  brought  it  to  our  room  quite  early,  while 
Peter  was  still  asleep. 

AMADEUS 

I  see. 

PETER 

I  can  play  theater  already.  There  is  a  king,  and  a 
peasant,  and  a  bride,  and  a  devil — one  that's  all  red 
— almost  as  red  as  the  king  himself.  And  in  the 
back  there  is  a  mill,  and  a  sky,  and  a  forest,  and  a 
hunter.   .   .   .  Won't  you  come  and  look  at  it,  papa? 


234  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 


AMADEUS  {seated  on  the  couch,  with  the  boy  standing 
between  his  knees;  speaking  absentmindedly)  Of 
course  I  must  come  and  look  at  it. 

CHAMBERMAID  {entering) 
Sir  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

What  is  it? 

CHAMBERMAID 

His  Highness  asks  if  you'll  see  him. 

AMADEUS 

What  highness? 

CHAMBERMAID 

His  Highness,  the  Prince  Lohsenstein. 
AMADEUS  {rising) 
What? 

GOVERNESS 

Come,  Peter — we'll  go  back  and  play  in  the  summer- 
house.     {She  goes  out  with  Peter) 
AMADEUS  {with  dignity) 

Tell  the  Prince  .  .  .  ( Turning  away  from  her)  One 
moment,  please.  {To  himself)  What  can  that 
mean  .  .  .   ?     {Abruptly)     Ask  him  to  come  in. 

CHAMBERMAID    {gOCS   OUt) 

AMADEUS  {walks  quickly  to  and  fro,  but  stops  at  some 
distance  from  the  door  when  Sigismund  enters) 

siGisMUND  {is  slender,  blonde,  twenty-six,  elegantly 
dressed,  but  appears  in  no  respect  foppish;  he  bows 
to  Amadeus)     Good-morning. 

AMADEUS  {takes  a  few  steps  forward  to  meet  him  and 
nods  politely) 

SIGISMUND  {looks  around  a  little  shyly,  but  wholly  free 
from  any  ridiculous  embarrassment;  his  manner  is  in 
every  respect  dignified;  there  is  a  slight  smile  on  his 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  235 

■face)  We  have  not  seen  each  other  for  some  time, 
and  you'll  probably  assume  that  my  visit  to-day  has 
a  special  reason. 

AMADEUS 

Naturally.     {Pointing  to  a  chair)    Please. 

SIGISMUND 

Thank  you.  {He  comes  nearer,  but  remains  stand- 
ing) I  have  decided  to  take  this  step — which  has 
not  come  easy  to  me,  I  can  assure  you — because  I 
find  the  situation  in  which  we  ...  in  which  all  of  us 
have  been  placed,  untenable  and,  in  a  certain  sense, 
ridiculous  .  .  .  and  because  I  think  that,  in  one 
way  or  another,  it  should  be  brought  to  an  end.  The 
sole  object  of  my  visit  is  to  put  before  you  a  propo- 
sition. 

AMADEUS 

I'm  listening. 

SIGISMUND 

I  don't  want  to  waste  any  words.     My  proposition 
is  that  you  get  a  divorce  from  your  wife. 
AMADEUS  {shrinks  back  for  a  moment,  staring  at  Sigis- 
mund;   then,  after  a  pause,  he  says  calmly)     You 
wish  to  marry  Cecilia? 

SIGISMUND 

There  is  nothing  I  wish  more  eagerly. 

AMADEUS 

And  what  is  the  attitude  of  Cecilia  toward  your  in- 
tentions ? 

SIGISMUND 

Not  encouraging  so  far. 
AMADEUS  {puzzled) 

Cecilia  is  absolutely  in  a  position  to  decide  for  her- 
self.    And  of  course,  she  would  also  have  the  right 


236  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 

to  leave  me — whenever  and  howsoever  it  might  please 
her  to  do  so.  For  that  reason  you  must  pardon  me 
if  I  find  the  object  of  jour  visit  incomprehensible, 
to  say  the  least. 

SIGISMUND 

You'll  soon  find  it  comprehensible,  I  think.  The  dis- 
couraging attitude  of  Mrs.  Adams-Ortenburg  proves 
nothing  at  all  in  this  connection,  I  must  say.  As  long 
as  Mrs.  Adams-Ortenburg  has  not  been  set  free  by 
you — even  if  that  be  done  against  her  own  will — 
she  is,  in  a  sense,  bound  to  you.  To  get  this  matter 
fully  cleared  up,  it  seems  to  me  necessary  that  you 
yourself,  my  dear  Master,  insist  on  a  divorce.  Mrs. 
Adams-Ortenburg  will  not  be  in  a  position  to  choose 
freely  until  she  has  been  divorced  from  you.  Until 
then  the  struggle  between  us  two  will  not  be  on  equal 
terms — as,  I  trust,  you  would  like  to  have  it. 

AMADEUS 

There  can  be  no  talk  of  any  struggle  here.  You  mis- 
understand the  actual  state  of  affairs  in  a  manner 
that  seems  to  me  incomprehensible.  For  I  have  no 
right  to  suppose  that  Cecilia  has  made  any  secret 
of  the  more  deep-lying  reasons  that  have  so  far  pre- 
vented us  from  considering  a  dissolution  of  our  mar- 
riage. 

SIGISMUND 

Certainly,  I  am  aware  of  those  reasons,  but  to  me 
they  don't  by  any  means  seem  sufficiently  pressing — 
not  even  from  your  own  viewpoint — to  exclude  all 
thought  of  a  divorce.  And  I  am  anxious  to  assure 
you  that,  under  all  circumstances,  I  shall  feel  bound 
to  treat  those  reasons  with  the  most  profound  re- 
spect. 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  23T 

AMADEUS 

What  do  you  mean? 

SIGISMUND 

You  know,  my  dear  Master,  that  the  reverence  I  have 
for  your  art,  even  if  I  am  not  ahvays  capable  of 
grasping  it,  equals  the  admiration  I  feel  for  the 
singing  of  Mrs.  Adams-Ortenburg.  I  know  how 
much  you  two  mutually  owe  to  each  other,  and  how 
you — if  I  may  say  so — complement  each  other 
musically.  And  it  would  never  occur  to  me  to  put 
any  difficulties  whatsoever  in  the  way  of  your 
continued  artistic  relationship.  I  am  equally  aware 
of  the  tenderness  with  which  you  regard  your  child 
— for  whom,  by  the  way,  as  you  probably  know,  I 
have  a  great  deal  of  devotion — and  I  can  give  you 
my  word  that  the  doors  leading  to  the  quarters  of 
little  Peter  will  always  stand  open  to  you. 

AMADEUS 

In  other  words,  you  would  have  no  objection  to  see- 
ing the  former  husband  of  your — of  the  wife — of 
the  Princess  Lohsenstein,  admitted  to  your  house  as 
a  friend.'' 

SIGISMUND 

Any  such  objection  would  be  regarded  by  me  as  an 
insult  to  your — to  my — to  Mrs.  Cecilia  Adams-Or- 
tenburg, as  well  as  to  3"ou,  my  dear  Master.  With 
those  provisions  made,  the  new  arrangement,  which 
I  am  taking  the  liberty  to  suggest,  would  be  more 
sensible  and — if  you'll  allow  me  a  frank  expression — 
more  decent  than  the  one  to  which  all  of  us  now  have 
to  submit.  I  anl  convinced,  my  dear  Master,  that, 
when  you  have  had  chance  to  consider  the  matter 
calmly,  you  will  not  only  agree  with  me,  but  you  will 


238  INTERMEZZO  [act  in 

be  surprised  that  this  simple  solution  of  an  unbear- 
able situation  has  not  occurred  to  yourself  long  ago. 
As  for  me,  I  want  to  add  that,  to  me  personally,  this 
solution  seems  the  only  possible  one.  Yes,  I  don't 
hesitate  to  say  that  I  would  leave  the  city,  without 
hope  of  ever  seeing  Mrs.  Cecilia  again,  rather  than 
keep  on  compromising  her  in  a  manner  that  must  be 
equally  painful  to  all  of  us. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  has  it  come  to  that  all  at  once.^*  Well,  if  the 
matter  doesn't  trouble  Cecilia  or  me,  I  think  you 
might  well  regard  it  with  indifference.  I  hope  you 
know  that  we  have  arranged  our  life  to  suit  ourselves, 
without  the  least  regard  for  popular  gossip,  and 
that  I  don't  care  at  all  whether  or  no  Cecilia  be  com- 
promised— as  you  call  it. 

SIGISMUND 

I  know  you  don't.  But  I  feel  differently.  A  lady 
to  whom  I'm  so  devoted,  and  whom  I  respect  so 
highly  that  I  would  lead  her  to  the  altar,  must  ap- 
pear spotless  to  God  and  man  alike. 

AMADEUS 

You  might  have  kept  that  in  mind  before.  Your 
previous  behavior  has  given  no  indication  of  such  a 
view.  You  have  been  waiting  for  my  wife  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  of  the  opera ;  you  have  been  walk- 
ing with  her  for  hours  at  a  time ;  you  have  visited 
her  in  the  country;  you  have  followed  her  to  Berlin 
and  come  back  here  in  her  company  .   .   . 

SIGISMUND  {surprised) 

But  it  was  in  your  power  to  stop  all  those  things,  if 
they  didn't  suit  you  .   .   . 


ACT  III]  INTERMEZZO  239 

AMADEUS 

Stop  them  .  .  .  because  they  didn't  suit  .  .  .  ? 
What  has  that  to  do  with  what  I  am  talking  of? — I 
am  not  the  person  who  has  found  this  situation  un- 
bearable and  compromising. 

SIGISMUND 

Oh,  I  understand.  Considering,  however,  that  you 
have  placed  such  emphasis  on  your  indiiference  to 
popular  gossip,  I  must  say  that  your  tone  sounds 
pretty  excited.  But  permit  me  to  assure  you  that 
this  impresses  me  rather  pleasantly.  Bear  in  mind 
that  I  am  merely  human.  What  young  man  in  my 
place  would  have  refrained  from  meeting  the  adored 
one,  when  everything  was  rendered  so  easy  for  him.'' 
And  nevertheless  I  didn't  visit  the  Pustertal  or  make 
the  tour  to  Berlin  without  an  inward  struggle — in 
fact,  I  have  often  had  to  struggle  with  myself  while 
waiting  for  her  near  the  opera.  And  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  I  have  suffered  under  the  searching  glances 
directed  at  Mrs.  Adams-Ortcnburg  and  myself  when 
we  were  having  supper  together  after  one  of  the  Ber- 
lin performances,  for  instance,  or  when  we  went  for 
an  afternoon  drive  in  the  Tiergarten.^  Not  to  speak 
of  the  painful  impression  my  aunt's  remarks  made 
on  me  when  I  called  to  bid  her  good-by!  Really,  I 
can't  find  words  to  express  it. 

AMADEUS 

How  much  longer  do  you  mean  to  keep  up  this  re- 
markable comedy,  my  dear  Prince.'' 
SIGISMUND  (drawing  back) 
Do  you  mean  .   .   . 

*  A   large   park   in   the   center   of   Berlin,   corresponding  to   the 
Central  Park  of  New  York  or  the  Hyde  Park  of  London. 


240  INTERMEZZO  [act  in 

AMADEUS 

What  in  the  world  makes  you  appear  before  me  in  a 
part  which  I  don't  know  whether  to  call  tasteless  or 
foolhardy? 

SIGISMUND 

Sir !  .  .  .  Oh  .  .  .  !  You  think  ...  I  see  now 
.  .  .  And  you  imagine  that  I  would  have  crossed 
your  threshold  again  under  such  circumstances.'* 

AMADEUS 

Why  should  that  particular  thing  not  be  imagined.? 

SIGISMUND 

Later  on  we  shall  get  back  to  what  you  think  of  me. 
But  a  third  person  is  concerned  in  this  matter,  and 
I  am  not  going  to  stand  .  .   . 

AMADEUS 

May  I  ask  whether  you  have  been  equally  angry 
with  everyone  who  has  dared  to  question  the  virtue 
of  Mrs.  Adams-Ortenburg.'' 

SIGISMUND 

You  are  at  least  the  first  one  who  has  dared  to 
question  it  to  my  face,  and  the  last  one  who  may 
dare  to  do  so  unpunished. 

AMADEUS 

Do  you  think  the  punishment  threatening  the  im- 
pertinent one  in  your  mind  will  be  apt  to  restore  the 
reputation  of  Cecilia?  Do  you  think  it  would  put 
an  end  to  the  gossip  if  you,  of  all  people,  tried  to 
champion  the  honor  of  Mrs.  Adams-Ortenburg? 

SIGISMUND 

Who  could,  if  not  I? 

AMADEUS 

If  it  is  not  a  comedy  you  are  now  playing,  then  you 
haven't  the  right  even ! 


ACT  III]  INTERMEZZO  ^41 

SIGISMUND 

Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Cecilia  is  the  only  woman 
in  the  world  who  must  stand  unprotected  against  any 
slander  ? 

AMADEUS 

If  you  arc  telling  the  truth,  Prince  Sigismund,  then 
there  is  only  one  person  in  the  world  who  has  the 
right  to  protect  Cecilia,  and  that  person  am  I. 

SIGISMUND 

Considering  what  has  happened,  I  have  excellent  rea- 
son to  think  that  you  will  neither  avail  yourself  of 
that  right  nor  fulfill  that  duty. 

AMADEUS 

You  are  mistaken.  And  if  you  will  take  the  trouble 
of  returning  home,  you  will  soon  be  convinced  of 
your  mistake. 

SIGISMUND 

What  do  you  mean? 

AMADEUS 

I  mean  simply  that  two  of  my  friends  are  now  on 
their  way  to  your  house  on  my  behalf  .   .   . 

SIGISMUND 

Well  .   .  .    .? 

AMADEUS 

To  demand  reparation  for  what  .  .  .  {looking 
Sigismund  straight  in  the  eye)  I  believed  you  guilty 
of. 

SIGISMUND  {takes  a  step  back;  a  pause  ensues  during 
which  they  stare  hard  at  each  other)  You  liave 
challenged  .  .  .  {Reaching  out  his  hand)  That's 
fine! 

AMADEUS  {does  not  accept  the  proffered  hand) 


242  INTERMEZZO  [act  in 

SIGISMUND 

But  it's  splendid!  I  can  assure  you  that  the  whole 
matter  now  assumes  quite  a  different  aspect.  And, 
of  course,  I  shall  be  at  your  disposal  just  the  same, 
if  you  insist. 
AMADEUS  {draws  a  deep  breath,  looks  long  at  Sigis- 
mund,  and  shakes  his  head  at  last)  No,  I  won't 
any  longer.  (He  shakes  hands  with  him,  and  then 
begins  walking  to  and  fro,  muttering  to  himself) 
Cecilia  .  .  .  Cecilia  .  .  .  !  {Returning  to  Sigis- 
mund  and  addressing  him  in  a  totally  different  tone) 
Won't  you  please  be  seated,  Sigismund.'' 

SIGISMUND 

No,  thank  you. 
AMADEUS  (feeling  repelled  and  suspicious  again) 
Just  as  you  please. 

SIGISMUND 

Don't  misunderstand  me,  please.  But  I  suppose  this 
ends  our  conference,  my  dear  Master.  (Looking 
around)  And  yet  I  must  admit  that  your  rude  treat- 
ment has  made  me  feel  a  great  deal  more  at  ease. 
Isn't  that  strange.^  And  in  spite  of  the  fact  that, 
after  this  unexpected  turn,  my  hopes  must  be  held 
practically — I  beg  your  pardon ! — completely  dis- 
posed of  ...  In  spite  of  this  I  feel  actually  In  much 
better  spirits  than  I  have  done  for  a  long  time.  Even 
If  I  am  not  to  have  the  happiness  of  which  I  have 
foolishly  dared  to  dream  so  long  .   .   . 

AMADEUS 

Was  it  so  very  foolish? 
SIGISMUND  (good-humor edly) 

Oh,  yes.  But  this  Is  at  least  an  acceptable  con- 
clusion.    (Shaking  his  head)     It  seems  queer!     If  I 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  243 

hadn't  come  here  at  this  very  moment,  you  might 
never  have  learned — you  might  never  have  beheved — 
might  have  beheved  that  Ceciha  .  .  .  And  one  of 
us  might  perhaps — must  perhaps  have  .  .  .  {He 
makes  a  gesture  to  complete  the  sentence) 

AMADEUS 

It  was  indeed  a  strange  coincidence  that  made  you 
choose  this  particular  moment  .   .   . 

SIGISMUND 

Coincidence,  you  say?  Oh,  no,  there  are  no  coinci- 
dences— as  you  will  discover  sooner  or  later.  {Pause) 
Well,  good-by  then,  and  give  my  regards  to  Mrs. 
.  .  .  Adams  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

You  can  safely  call  her  Cecilia. 

SIGISMUND 

.  .  .  and  tell  her,  please,  that  she  mustn't  be  angry 
with  me  for  having  taken  such  a  step  without  her 
knowledge.  Of  course,  my  going  away  won't  sur- 
prise her.  When  leaving  her  yesterday,  I  told  her 
that  I  couldn't  continue  this  kind  of  existence. 

AMADEUS 

And  she  .  .  .    ?    What  did  she  say.'' 

SIGISMUND  {hesitatingly) 
She  .  .  . 

AMADEUS  {excited  again) 

She  tried  to  keep  you  here  .   .  .    ? 

SIGISMUND 

Yes. 

AMADEUS 

So  that  after  all  ,   .   .    ! 


^44  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 

r-  '     "  '  ■  -■  ■■  ■      ■  ■■ -, ■■  ■      ,  ■  „ 

SIGISMUND 

Now  she  won't  try  any  longer,  my  dear  Master. 
{With  a  wistful  smile)    I  have  served  my  purpose. 

AMADEUS 

What  do  yon  mean.? 

SIGISMUND 

Oh,  I  can  see  now  why  she  needed  me — of  course,  you 
were  not  at  all  aware  of  it! 

AMADEUS 

Why  did  she  need  you? 

SIGISMUND 

Simply  and  solely  as  a  means  of  winning  you  back. 

AMADEUS 

What  makes  you  think  .  .  .   ? 

SIGISMUND 

What  .  .  .   ?    That  she  has  succeeded. 

AMADEUS 

No,  Sigismund — she  hadn't  lost  me — in  spite  of  all 
that  had  happened.  In  fact,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  rather 
lost  her  than  she — me. 

SIGISMUND 

That's  awfully  kind  of  you.    But  now — God  be  with 
you! 
AMADEUS  {with  something  like  emotion) 
And  when  shall  we  see  you  again? 

SIGISMUND 

I  don't  know.  Perhaps  never. — Please  don't  im- 
agine that  I  might  take  my  own  life.  I  shall  get  over 
it,  being  still  young. — Oh,  my  dear  Master,  if  things 
could  only  become  what  they  used  to  be,  so  that  I 
could  sit  here  at  the  fireplace  while  Cecilia  was  sing- 
ing— or  hammer  away  at  the  piano  after  sup- 
per .  .  .    ! 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  245 

AMABEUS 

Don't  be  quite  so  modest,  please !  The  fame  of  your 
piano  playing  has  reached  Berlin  even,  I  hear. 

SIGISMUND 

So  she  has  told  you  that,  too?! — But  you  see,  dear 
Master,  all  that  can  never  come  back — we  could  no 
longer  feel  at  ease  with  each  other  .  .  .  So — never 
to  meet  again! 

AMADEUS 

Never  .  .  .  Why  ?  Perhaps  I  shall  see  you  very  soon 
alone.    I  am  also — going  away. 

SIGISMUND 

I  know.  We  were  talking  of  it  yesterday,  in  the  din- 
ing car.  You  are  to  conduct  your — number-which- 
one  is  it  now? 

AMADEUS 

The  fourth. 

SIGISMUND 

So  you  have  got  that  far  already? — And  where  are 
you  going  anyhow? 

AMADEUS 

To  the  Rhine  district  first  of  all;  then  by  way  of 
Munich  to  Italy — Venice,  Milan,  Rome. 

SIGISMUND 

Rome  .  .  .  ?  There  wu  may  possibly  meet.  But 
you'll  have  to  pardon  me  for  not  coming  to  your  con- 
certs. So  far  I  have  not  been  able  to  understand 
your  symphonies.  .  .  .  But  I  am  sure  I  shall  some- 
time !  One  does  grow  more  and  more  clever,  and  sor- 
row and  experiences  in  particular  have  a  maturing 
influence.  .  .  .  "Now  he's  making  fun  of  it,"  I  sup- 
pose you  are  thinking.  But,  really,  I  am  not  in  a 
very  humorous  mood.     Farewell,  my  dear  Master — 


246  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 

and  my  most  respectful  compliments  to  your  wife. 
{He  goes  out) 

AMADEUs  {walks  hack  and  forth;  takes  a  jew  deep 
breaths,  as  if  relieved;  goes  out  into  the  garden;  re- 
turns; sits  down  at  the  piano  and  plays  a  few  im- 
provisations; gets  up  and  goes  to  the  writing  desk, 
where  he  begins  to  look  for  something  among  the 
papers)  Where's  that  Solo?  .  .  .  She's  going  to 
sing  it,  and  I  shall  be  present  .  .  .  !  {He  seats  him- 
self at  the  piano  again,  apparently  in  a  very  happy 
mood)     Cecilia!  .  .  .  Cecilia! 

CECILIA  {enters) 

AMADEUS  {rising) 

Ah,  there  you  are  at  last,  Cecilia ! 

CECILIA  {very  calmly) 
Grood-morning,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

A  little  late. 
CECILIA  {smiling) 

Yes.     {She  takes  off  her  hat  and  goes  to  the  mirror 
to  arrange  her  hair) 

AMADEUS 

What  made  you  get  out  so  early? 

CECILIA 

Various  things  I  had  to  attend  to. 

AMADEUS 

And  may  one  ask  .  .  .    ? 

CECILIA 

One  may. — Look  here,  what  I  have  got   for  you. 
{She  takes  a  letter  from  a  small  bag) 

AMADEUS 

What's  that?    {He  takes  it)    What  .  .  .    ?    My  let- 
ter to  Philine  .   .   .    !    Did  you  go  to  her,  Cecilia? 


ACT  III]  INTERMEZZO  247 

CECILIA 

Well,  I  felt  a  little  nervous  about  it.  Now  I  think  it 
was  rather  silly  of  me. 

AMADEUS 

And  how  .  .  .   ? 

CECILIA 

Oh,  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world !  I  asked  her  for 
it,  and  she  gave  it  to  me.  It  was  lying  in  an  open 
drawer  in  her  writing  desk — with  others.  I  think 
you  can  call  yourself  lucky. 

AMADEUS 

Cecilia!  {He  tears  the  letter  to  pieces  and  throws 
these  into  the  fireplace) 

CECILIA 

Well,  you  would  never  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
demand  it  of  her,  and  that  would  have  kept  me  in  a 
state  of  irritation.  I  can't  have  anything  like  that 
on  my  mind  when  I  want  to  work. — And  now  that's 
settled.  {She  turns  away)  Then  I  went  to  the 
opera,  too.  I  have  had  a  talk  with  the  Director. 
He's  going  to  indorse  my  request  to  be  set  free. 

AMADEUS 

Your  request  to  be  set  free  ....'' 

CECILIA 

Yes,  I  shall  go  to  Berlin  on  the  first  of  January. 

AMADEUS 

But,  Ceciha,  we  haven't  talked  it  over  yet  .  .  . 

CECILIA 

What's  the  use  of  postponing  a  thing  that's  already 
settled  in  my  own  mind.? — You  know  I  never  like  to 
do  that. 

AMADEUS 

But  it  means  a  whole  year  of  separation ! 


248  INTERMEZZO  [act  hi 

CECILIA 

To  start  with.  But  I  think  it  might  be  just  as  well 
to  prepare  ourselves  for  a  still  longer  period. 

AMADEUS 

Do  you  mean  to  leave  me,  Cecilia? ! 

CECILIA 

What  else  can  I  do,  Amadeus?  That  ought  to  be 
as  clear  to  jou  as  it  is  to  me. 

AMADEUS 

So  it  would  have  been  a  little  while  ago,  Cecilia.  But 
I  have  come  to  see  our  future  in  a  different  light 
.  .  .  Cecilia  .   .  .  Sigismund  has  been  here ! 

CECILIA 

Sigismund?!  .  .  .  You  have  talked  with  him?  .  .  . 
What  did  he  want? 

AMADEUS 

What  did  he  want  .  .   .    ?    Your  hand. 

CECILIA 

And  you  refused  .  .  .   ? 

AMADEUS 

He  is  sending  you  his  farewell  greetings  through  me, 
Cecilia. 

CECILIA 

So  that's  what  has  put  you  in  such  a  good  humor  all 
at  once!     (Pause)     And  if  he  hadn't  come  here? 

AMADEUS 

If  he  hadn't  come  here  .  .  . 

CECILIA 

Speak  out,  please ! 
AMADEUS  {remains  silent) 

CECILIA 

You  didn't  mean  to  ...  to  fight  him? 


ACT  ni]  INTERMEZZO  249 

AMADEUS 

I  did.     Albert  was  on  his  way  to  him  at  the  time. 

CECILIA 

Wliat  vanity,  Amadeus ! 

AMADEUS 

No,  not  vanity,  Cecilia.     I  love  you. 
CECILIA  {remains  wholly  unresponsive) 

AMADEUS 

You  can't  guess,  of  course,  what  took  place  within 
me  while  his  words  were  gradually  bringing  home  the 
truth  to  me !  Once  more  the  doors  of  heaven  have 
been  thrown  open  to  me! 

CECILIA 

The  only  thing  you  forget  is  that  they  must  remain 
closed  to  me  forever. 

AMADEUS 

Don't  say  that,  Cecilia.  What  has  happened  to  me 
in  the  past  seems  so  very  insignificant,  after  all. 

CECILIA 

Insignificant,  you  say.? — And  if  it  had  happened  to 
me,  it  would  have  been  so  significant  that  people 
should  have  had  to  kill  or  be  killed  on  that  account? 
How  can  you  think  then,  that  I  might  get  over  it  so 
easily? 

AMADEUS 

How  can  I  .  .  .  ?  Because  you  have  proved  it  al- 
ready. You  knew  just  what  had  happened,  and  yet 
you  became  mine  again.  .  .  .  You  knew  that  I 
had  been  faithless,  while  you  had  kept  your  faith, 
and  yet  .  .  . 

CECILIA 

You  say  that  I  have  kept  my  faith? — No,  I  haven't! 
And  even  if  I  should  seem  faithful  to  you,  I  have  long 


250  INTERMEZZO  [act  hi 

ago  ceased  to  be  so  in  my  own  mind.  /  know  the  de- 
sires that  have  burned  within  me  ...  /  know  how 
often  my  body  has  trembled  and  yearned  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  man  .  .  .  And  what  I  told  you  last 
night — that  I  am  waiting  with  wide-open  arms,  full 
of  longings  and  expectations — that's  true,  Amadeus 
— no  less  true  than  it  is  that  I  am  standing  face  to 
face  with  you  new. 

AMADEUS 

If  that  be  true,  what  has  kept  you  from  satisfying  all 
your  longings — you,  who  have  been  as  free  as  I  have  ? 

CECILIA 

I  am  a  woman,  Amadeus.  And  we  seem  to  be  like 
that.  Something  makes  us  hesitate  even  when  we 
have  already  made  up  our  minds. 

AMADEUS 

And  because  you  seemed  guilty  in  your  own  mind, 
you  remained  silent?  .  .  .  And  for  no  other  reason 
have  you  left  me — me,  whose  sufferings  you  might 
have  relieved  by  a  single  word — to  believe  you  as 
guilty  as  myself.? 

CECILIA 

Perhaps  .  .  . 

AMADEUS 

And  how  long  did  you  mean  to  let  me  go  on  believ- 
ing that.'' 

CECILIA 

Until  it  became  true,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

But  there  has  been  enough  of  it  now,  Cecilia.  It 
will  never  become  true  .   .   .   never  after  this. 


ACT  III]  INTERMEZZO  251 

CECILIA 

Where  do  you  get  that  idea,  Amadeus?  It  is  going 
to  be  true.  Do  you  think,  perhaps,  that  all  this  was 
meant  as  a  kind  of  ordeal  for  you?  Do  you  think  I 
was  playing  a  childish  comedy  in  order  to  punish 
you,  and  that  now,  when  you  have  discovered  the 
truth  prematurely,  I  shall  sink  into  your  arms  and 
declare  everything  right  again?  Have  you  really 
imagined  that  everything  could  now  be  forgotten, 
and  that  we  might  resume  our  marriage  relations  at 
the  exact  point  where  they  were  interrupted?  How 
can  you  possibly  have  wished  that  such  might  be  the 
case — so  that  our  marriage  would  be  like  thousands 
of  others,  where  both  deceive  each  other,  and  become 
reconciled,  and  deceive  each  other  again — just  as  the 
moment's  whim  happens  to  move  them? 

AMADEUS 

We  have  neither  deceived  each  other,  nor  become 
reconciled — we  have  been  free,  and  have  merely  found 
each  other  again. 

CECILIA 

Each  other,  you  say?  ...  As  if  that  were  possible! 
What  is  it  then,  that  has  made  me  seem  so  desirable 
to  you  all  at  once?  Not  the  fact  that  I  am  Cecilia — 
oh,  no !  But  the  fact  that  I  seem  to  have  come  back 
another  woman.  And  have  I  really  become  vours 
again?  Not  at  all!  Not  unless  you  have  grown  so 
modest  all  at  once  that  you  can  be  satisfied  with  a 
happiness  that  might  have  fallen  to  somebody  else 
perhaps,  if  he  had  merely  chanced  to  be  on  hand  at 
that  particular  moment. 
AMADEUS  (shrinking  back) 

But  even  if  last  night  be  sacrificed  to  this  fixed  idea 


252  INTERMEZZO  [act  in 

of  yours,  Cecilia — it  is  daylight  now — we  are  awake 
— and  in  this  moment  of  clear  Ught  you  must  feel, 
no  less  than  I,  that  we  love  each  other,  Cecilia — love 
as  we  have  never  loved  before. 

CECILIA 

This  moment  might  prove  deceptive — and  I  am  sure  it 
would.  No  other  moment  would  be  more  apt  to  prove 
such.  Do  you  think  those  many  moments  in  which  we 
felt  our  tenderness  gradually  ebbing  away — those 
many  moments  when  we  felt  the  lure  of  other  loves — 
do  you  think  them  less  worthy  of  consideration  than 
this  one.''  The  only  thing  urging  us  together  now  is 
our  fear  of  the  final  leave-taking.  And  our  feelings 
at  this  moment  make  a  pretty  poor  sample  upon 
which  to  base  an  eternity.  I  don't  trust  them.  What 
has  happened  once,  may  .  .  .  nay,  must  repeat  it- 
self— to-morrow — or  two  years  from  now — or  five 
...  in  a  more  indiscreet  manner,  perhaps,  or  in  a 
manner  more  tragical — but  certainly  in  a  manner  to 
be  much  more  regretted. 

AMADEUS 

Oh,  no — never  again !  Now — after  what  I  have  felt 
and  experienced  lately,  I  can  vouch  for  myself. 

CECILIA 

I  don't  feel  equally  certain  of  myself,  Amadeus. 

AMADEUS 

That  doesn't  scare  me,  Cecilia,  for  now  I'm  prepared 
to  fight  for  you — now  I'm  worthy  and  capable  of 
fighting  for  you.  Hereafter  you  shall  never  more 
be  left  unprotected  as  you  were  in  the  past — my  ten- 
derness will  guard  you. 

CECILIA 

But  I  don't  want  to  be  guarded !     I  shall  no  longer 


ACT  in]  INTERMEZZO  253 

permit  you  to  guard  nic !  And  I  can  no  more  give 
you  any  promises  than  I  care  to  accept  yours. 

AMADEUS 

And  if  I  should  forgo  them  myself — if  I  should  risk 
it  on  a  mere  uncertainty? 

CECILIA 

That's  more  than  I  dare — whether  the  risk  concern 
you  or  myself  .  .  .  more  than  I  would  risk  even  with 
certainty  in  mind.     {She  turns  away  from  him) 

AMADEUS 

Then  I  cannot  possibly  understand  you,  Cecilia. 
What  is  it  you  want  to  make  us  pay  for  so  dearly — 
yes,  both  of  us.?    Is  it  our  guilt  or  our  happiness.'* 

CECILIA 

Why  should  either  one  of  them  be  paid  for?  What's 
the  use  of  such  a  word  between  us?  Neither  one  of 
us  has  done  anything  that  requires  atonement. 
Neither  one  of  us  has  any  right  to  reproach  the  other 
one.  Botli  of  us  have  been  free,  and  each  one  has 
used  his  freedom  in  accordance  with  his  own  desire 
and  ability.  I  think  nothing  has  happened  but  what 
must  happen.  We  have  trusted  each  other  too  much 
— or  too  little.  We  were  neither  made  to  love  each 
other  faithfully  forever  nor  to  maintain  a  pure 
friendship.  Others  have  become  resigned — I  can't — 
and  you  mustn't  allow  yourself,  Amadeus.  Our  ex- 
periment has  failed.  Let  us  admit  our  disillusion- 
ment. That  can  be  borne.  But  I  have  no  curiosity 
to  find  how  it  tastes  when  everything  comes  to  an  end 
in  sheer  loathing. 

AMADEUS 

Comes  to  an  end,  you  say  ? — But  that  can't  be  possi- 
ble,  Cecilia !     It   can't   be   possible   that  we    should 


254  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 

really  leave  each  other — part  from  each  other  like 
strangers !  We  are  still  face  to  face — each  of  us 
can  feel  the  closeness  of  the  other  one — and  that's 
why  you  cannot  yet  realize  what  it  would  mean.  Con- 
sider all  the  things  that  might  come  into  your  life 
as  well  as  into  mine  during  a  separation  of  that  kind 
— so  prolonged  and  so  void  of  responsibility — things 
that  now  have  no  place  in  your  imagination  even,  and 
for  which  there  could  be  no  reparation. 

CECILIA 

Could  they  be  worse  than  what  has  already  befallen 
me  ?  Faithfulness  to  each  other  in  the  ordinary  sense 
matters  least  of  all,  I  should  think.  And  we  could 
probably  more  easily  find  our  way  back  to  each  other 
sometime  from  almost  any  other  experience  than  that 
adventure  of  last  night,  or  from  a  moment  of  self- 
deception  like  this  one. 

AMADEUS 

Find  our  way  back,  you  say  ....'* 

CECILIA 

It's  also  possible  that,  after  a  couple  of  years,  we 
won't  care  to  do  so — that  everything  may  be  over 
between  us  to  such  an  extent  that  we  cannot  imagine 
it  now.  That's  possible,  I  say.  But  if  we  stayed  to- 
gether now,  everything  would  be  over  within  the  next 
few  seconds.  For  then  we  should  be  no  better  than 
all  those  we  have  despised  hitherto — the  one  diflPer- 
ence  being  that  we  had  arranged  ourselves  more  com- 
fortably than  the  rest. 

ALBERT  {entering) 

I  beg  your  pardon  for  coming  in  unannounced  like 
this,  but  .  .  . 

CECILIA  {withdraws  toward  the  background) 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  255 

AMADEUS  {going  to  meet  Albert) 

Yes,  I  know — you  didn't  find  the  Prince — he  has  been 
here  himself. 

ALBERT 

What  does  that  mean? 

AMADEUS 

That  there  was  no  reason  why  I  should  want  to  kill 
him. 

ALBERT 

I  see. — Well,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  haven't  suspected 
something  of  the  kind  myself! — Then  I  sujapose 
everything  is  once  more  in  perfect  order  in  this 
house? 

AMADEUS 

Yes,  in  perfect  order.  When  I  return,  Cecilia  will  be 
in  Berlin,  and  I  shall  not  follow  her. 

ALBERT 

What?    Then  you  are  going  to  ask  for  a  separation 
after  all? 
CECILIA  {approaching  them) 

No,  we  are  not  going  to  ask  for  a  separation.  We'll 
just  separate. 

ALBERT 

What?  .  .  .  {Helooks  from  one  to  the  other;  pause) 
Really  I  like  that.  Indeed,  I  do.  I  think  both  of 
you  are  splendid — but  especially  you,  Cecilia — and, 
of  course,  there  is  nothing  else  left  for  you  to  do  now. 

PETER  {enters,  carrying  some  of  his  puppets) 

Papa!  Mamma!  I  can  play  theater  beautifully. 
Won't  you  come  and  look?     Oh,  please  come! 

CECILIA  {strokes  his  hair) 

AMADEUS    {remains   standing   at    some   distance   from 
them) 


256  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 

ALBERT 

Well,  isn't  this  just  like  life — the  life  you  are  always 
talking  of !  This  should  be  the  moment  when  you  had 
to  fall  into  each  others'  arms  with  absolute  certainty, 
if  you  had  had  the  luck  to  be  imaginatively  created — 
that  is,  not  by  me,  of  course. 

CECILIA 

No,  the  boy  means  too  much  to  both  of  us  to  make 
that  possible — don't  you  think  so,  Amadeus? 
AMADEUs  {losing  control  of  himself  after  a  glance  at 
Peter)    All  at  once  to  be  alone  in  the  world  again — 
it's  a  thought  I  can  hardly  face  ! 

CECILIA 

But  we  shall  be  somewhere  in  that  world,  you  know — 
your  child,  and  the  mother  of  your  child.  We  are 
not  parting  as  enemies,  after  all  ...  (  With  a  smile) 
I  am  even  ready  to  come  here  and  sing  that  Solo  of 
yours — although  we  shall  not  be  able  to  study  it  to- 
gether. 

AMADEUS 

It's  more  than  I  can  bear  .  .  .    ! 

CECILIA 

It  will  have  to  be  borne.    We  must  work — both  of  us. 

ALBERT  (to  Amadeus) 

Yes,  and  it  remains  to  be  seen  what  effect  a  real  sor- 
row like  this  may  have  on  you.  It's  just  what  you 
have  lacked  so  far.  I  expect  you'U  get  a  lot  out  of 
it.    In  a  sense,  I  might  almost  envy  you. 

PETER 

What's  the  matter?  .  .  .  Look  here,  mamma,  how 
they  jump  about!  That's  the  king,  and  this  is  the 
devil. 


ACT  III]  INTERMEZZO 


<). 


i  I 


ALBERT 

Come  on,  sonny,  and  play  your  piece  to  me.  But  I 
insist  that  the  hero  must  either  marry  in  the  end,  or 
be  carried  off  by  the  devil.  In  either  case  you  can 
go  home  quite  satisfied  when  the  curtain  drops.  {He 
goes  out  with  Peter) 
CECILIA  {after  a  glance  at  Amadeus,  starts  to  follow 
them) 

AMADEUS 

Cecilia ! 
CECILIA  {turns  back) 

AMADEUS  {passionately) 

Why  didn't  you  show  me  the  door,  Cecilia,  when  you 
knew  ....'' 

CECILIA 

Well,  did  I  know?  ...  I  have  loved  you,  Amadeus. 
And  all  I  wanted,  perhaps,  was  that  the  inevitable 
end  should  be  worthy  of  our  love — that  we  should 
part  after  a  final  moment  of  bhss,  and  with  a  pang. 

AMADEUS 

With  a  pang,  you  say  .  .  .  ?  Do  you  really  feel 
anything  like  that? 
CECILIA  {coming  close  to  him  and  speaking  very  gently) 
Why  don't  you  try  to  understand  me,  Amadeus?  I 
feel  it  just  as  keenly  as  you  do.  But  there  is  an- 
other thing  I  feel  more  strongly  than  you,  and  it  is 
well  for  us  both  that  I  do.  It  is  this,  Amadeus,  that 
we  have  been  so  much  to  each  other  that  we  must 
keep  the  memory  of  it  pure.  If  that  was  nothing 
but  an  adventure  last  night,  then  we  have  never  been 
worthy  of  our  past  happiness.  ...  If  it  was  a  fare- 
well, then  we  may  expect  new  happiness  in  the  fu- 


258  INTERMEZZO  [act  m 


ture  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  (She     starts     toward     the 
garden) 

AMADEUS 

And  that's  our  reward,  then,  for  having  always  been 
honest  to  each  other ! 
CECILIA  (turning  toward  him  again) 

Honest,  you  call  it  ...   ?     Have  we  always  been 
that? 

AMADEUS 

Cecilia ! 

CECILIA 

No,  I  can't  think  so  any  longer.  Let  everything  else 
have  been  honest — but  that  both  of  us  should  have 
resigned  ourselves  so  promptly  when  you  told  me 
of  your  passion  for  the  Countess  and  I  confessed 
my  affection  for  Sigismund — that  was  not  honest. 
If  each  of  us  had  then  flung  his  scorn,  his  bitter- 
ness, his  despair  into  the  face  of  the  other  one,  in- 
stead of  trying  to  appear  self-controlled  and  su- 
perior— then  we  should  have  been  honest — which, 
as  it  was,  we  were  not.  (She  walks  across  the  ve- 
randa outside  and  disappears  into  the  garden) 
AMADEUS  (to  himself) 

All  right — then  we  were  not  honest.  (After  a  pause) 
And  suppose  we  had  been?!  (For  a  moment  he 
seems  to  consider;  then  he  goes  to  the  writing  desk 
and  puts  the  manuscript  music  lying  there  into  the 
little  handbag;  after  a  glance  into  the  garden,  he 
goes  into  his  own  room,  returning  at  once  with  his 
hat  and  overcoat;  then  he  opens  the  handbag  again 
and  picks  out  a  manuscript,  which  he  places  on  the 
piano;  then  he  goes  out  rapidly,  taking  hat,  over- 
coat and  handbag  with  him;  a  brief  pause  follows) 


ACT  m]  INTERMEZZO  259 

CECILIA  {enters  and  notices  that  the  handbag  is  gone; 
she  goes  quickly  into  Amadeus'  room,  but  returns 
immediately ;  she  crosses  the  room  to  the  main  en- 
trance and  remains  standing  there,  opening  her  arms 
•widely  at  first,  and  then  letting  them  sink  down 
again;  going  to  the  piano,  she  catches  sight  of  the 
manuscript  lying  there  and  picks  it  up;  while  look- 
ing at  it,  she  sinks  down  on  the  piano  stool) 

PETER  {appears  on  the  veranda  with  Albert  and  calls 
from  there)     Mother! 

CECILIA  {does  not  hear  him) 

ALBERT  {observing  that  Cecilia  is  alone  and  sunk  in 
grief,  takes  Peter  zdth  him  into  the  garden  again) 

CECILIA  {begins  to  weep  softly  and  lets  her  head  sink 
down  on  the  piano) 

CUETAIN 


/ 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

OR 

THE    FAMILY   REUNION 

{Komtesse  Mizzi  oder  der  Familientag) 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 

1907 


PERSONS 

Count  Arpad  Pazmandy 

MizziE His  daughter 

Prince  Egon  Ravenstein 

LoLO  Langhuber 

Philip 

Professor  Windhofeb, 

Wasner 

The  Gardener 

The  Valet 


COUNTESS  MIZZIE 

The  garden  of  Count  Arpad.  In  the  background, 
tall  iron  fence.  Near  the  middle  of  this,  but  a  little 
more  to  the  right,  there  is  a  gate.  In  the  foreground, 
at  the  left,  appears  the  facade  of  the  two-storied  villa, 
which  used  to  be  an  imperial  hunting  lodge  about  180 
years  ago  and  was  remodeled  about  thirty  years  ago. 
A  narrow  terrace  runs  along  the  main  floor,  which  is 
raised  above  the  ground.  Three  wide  stairs  lead  from 
the  terrace  down  to  the  garden.  French  doors,  which 
are  standing  open,  lead  from  the  terrace  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. The  windows  of  the  upper  floor  are  of  ordi- 
nary design.  Above  that  floor  appears  a  small  bal- 
cony, to  which  access  is  had  through  a  dormer  window. 
This  balcony  holds  a  profusion  of  flowering  plants. 
A  garden  seat,  a  small  table  and  an  armchair  stand 
under  a  tree  at  the  right,  in  the  foreground. 

COUNT  (enters  from  the  right;  he  is  an  elderly  man 
with  gray  mustaches,  but  must  still  be  counted  de- 
cidedly good-looking;  his  bearing  and  manners  in- 
dicate the  retired  officer;  he  wears  a  riding  suit  and 
carries  a  crop) 

VALET  (entering  behind  the  Count) 

At  what  time  docs  Your  Grace  desire  to  have  dinner 
to-day  ? 

COUNT  (who  speaks  with  the  laconism  affected  by  his 


264  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

former  colleagues,  and  who,  at  that  particular  mo- 
ment, is  engaged  in  lighting  a  huge  cigar)     At  two. 

VALET 

And  when  is  the  carriage  to  be  ready,  Your  Grace? 

MIZZIE  ^  {appearing  on  the  balcony  with  a  palette  and 
a  bunch  of  brushes  in  one  hand,  calls  down  to  her 
father)     Good  morning,  papa. 

COUNT 

Morning,  Mizzie. 

MIZZIE 

You  left  me  all  alone  for  breakfast  again,  papa. 
Where  have  you  been  anyhow.'' 

COUNT 

Most  everywhere.  Rode  out  by  way  of  Mauer  and 
Rodaun.^  Perfectly  splendid  day.  And  what  are 
you  doing?  At  work  already?  Is  there  anything 
new  to  be  seen  soon? 

MIZZIE 

Yes,  indeed,  papa.  Nothing  but  flowers  though,  as 
usual. 

COUNT 

Isn't  the  professor  coming  to  see  you  to-day? 

MIZZIE 

Yes,  but  not  until  one. 

COUNT 

Well,  don't  let  me  interrupt  you. 

*  Diminutive  of  Maria. 

'  Small  towns  south  of  Vienna.  The  subsequent  reference  to  the 
Tiergarten  shows  that  the  Pazmandy  residence  must  be  in  the 
little  suburb  of  Lainz,  at  the  extreme  southwestern  corner  of 
Vienna.  Near  the  Tiergarten  there  is  actually  an  imperial  hunt- 
ing lodge,  which  the  playwright  seems  to  have  appropriated  for 
his  purpose. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  265 


MizziE  {throws  a  kiss  to  him  and  disappears  from  the 
balcony) 

COUNT  {to  the  valet) 

What  are  you  waiting  for?  Oh,  the  carriage.  I'm 
not  going  out  again  to-day.  Joseph  can  take  a  holi- 
day. Or  wait  a  moment.  {He  calls  up  to  the  bal- 
cony)    Say,  Mizzie  .   .   . 

MIZZIE  {reappears  on  the  balcony) 

COUNT 

Sorry  to  disturb  you  again.  Do  you  think  you'll 
want  the  carriage  to-day? 

MIZZIE 

No,  thank  you,  papa.  I  can  think  of  nothing.  .  .  . 
No,  thanks.     {She  disappears  again) 

COUNT 

So  Joseph  can  do  what  he  pleases  this  afternoon. 
That's — oh,  see  that  Franz  gives  the  nag  a  good 
rubbing  down.  We  got  a  little  excited  this  morning 
— both  of  us. 

VALET  {goes  out) 

COUNT  {sits  down  on  the  garden  seat,  picks  up  a  news- 
paper from  the  table  and  begins  to  read) 

GARDENER  {enters) 

Good  morning,  Your  Grace. 

COUNT 

Morning,  Peter.     What's  up? 

GARDENER 

With  Your  Grace's  permission,  I  have  just  cut  the 
tea  roses. 

COUNT 

Why  all  that  lot? 

GARDENER 

The  bush  is  full  up.     It  ain't  wise.  Your  Grace,  to 


266  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

leave  'em  on  the  stem  much  longer.  If  maybe  Your 
Grace  could  find  some  use  .  .  . 

COUNT 

Haven't  got  any.  Why  do  you  stand  there  looking 
at  me?  I'm  not  going  to  the  city.  I  won't  need  any 
flowers.  Why  don't  you  put  them  in  some  of  those 
vases  and  things  that  are  standing  about  in  there? 
Quite  the  fashion  nowadays,  isn't  it?  {He  takes 
the  hunch  of  flowers  from  the  gardener  and  inhales 
their  fragrance  while  he  seems  to  he  pondering  some- 
thing)    Wasn't  that  a  carriage  that  stopped  here? 

GARDENEE 

That's  His  Highness'  pair  of  blacks.  I  know  'em  by 
their  step. 

COUNT 

Thanks  very  much  then.     {He  hands  bacJc  the  roses) 
PRINCE  (comes  in  hy  the  gate) 
COUNT  (goes  to  meet  him) 

GARDENER 

Good  morning,  Your  Highness. 

PRINCE 

Hello,  Peter. 

GARDENER  (goes  oiit  toward  the  right) 

PRINCE  (wears  a  light-colored  Summer  suit;  is  fifty- 
five,  hut  doesn't  look  it;  tall  and  slender;  his  manner 
of  speech  suggests  the  diplo7nat,  who  is  as  much  at 
home  in  French  as  in  his  native  tongue) 

COUNT 

Delighted,  old  chap.     How  goes  it? 

PRINCE 

Thanks.     Splendid  day. 
COUNT  (offers  him  one  of  his  gigantic  cigars) 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  267 

PRINCE 

No,  thank  you,  not  before  lunch.  Only  one  of  my 
own  cigarettes,  if  you  permit.  {He  takes  a  ciga- 
rette from  his  case  and  lights  it) 

COUNT 

So  you've  found  time  to  drop  in  at  last.     Do  you 
know  how  long  you  haven't  been  here.''    Three  weeks. 
PRINCE  (glancing  toward  the  balcony) 
Really  that  long? 

COUNT 

What  is  it  that  makes  you  so  scarce.'' 

I'RINCE 

You  mustn't  mind.  But  you  are  right,  of  course. 
And  even  to-day  I  come  only  to  say  good-by. 

COUNT 

What — good-by  ? 

PRINCE 

I  shall  be  off  to-morrow. 

COUNT 

You're  going  away?     Where? 

PRINCE 

The  sea  shore.  And  you — have  you  made  any  plans 
yet? 

COUNT 

I  haven't  given  a  thought  to  it  yet — this  year. 

PRINCE 

Well,  of  course,  it's  wonderful  right  here — with  your 
enormous  park.  But  you  have  to  go  somewhere  later 
in  the  Summer? 

COUNT 

Don't  know  yet.     But  it's  all  one. 

PRINCE 

What's  wrong  now? 


268  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 


COUNT 

Oh,  my  dear  old  friend,  it's  going  downhill. 

PRINCE 

Plow?   That's  a  funny  way  of  talking,  Arpad.   What 
do  you  mean  by  downhill? 

COUNT 

One  grows  old,  Egon. 

PRINCE 

Yes,  and  gets  accustomed  to  it. 

COUNT 

What  do  you  know  about  it — you  who  are  five  years 
younger? 

PRINCE 

Six  almost.     But  at  fifty-five  the  springtime  of  life 
is  pretty  well  over.     Well — one  gets  resigned  to  it. 

COUNT 

You  have  always  been  something  of  a  philosopher, 
old  chap. 

PRINCE 

Anyhow,   I   can't   see   what's   the   matter  with  you. 
You  look  fine.      {Seats   himself;   frequently  during 
this  scene  he  glances  up  at  the  balcony;  pause) 
COUNT   {with  sudden  decision) 

Have  you  heard  the  latest?     She's  going  to  marry. 

PRINCE 

Who's  going  to  marry? 

COUNT 

Do  you  have  to  ask?     Can't  you  guess? 

PRINCE 

Oh,  I  see.     Thought  it  might  be  Mizzie.     And  that 
would  also  ...  So  Lolo  is  going  to  marry. 

COUNT 

She  is. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  269 


PEINCE 

But  that's  liardly  the  "latest." 

COUNT 

Why  not? 

PRINCE 

It's  what  she  has  promised,  or  tlireatened,  or  what- 
ever you  choose  to  call  it,  these  last  three  years. 

COUNT 

Three,  you  say?  May  just  as  well  say  ten.  Or 
eighteen.  Yes,  indeed.  In  fact,  since  the  very  start 
of  this  affair  between  her  and  me.  It  has  always 
been  a  fixed  idea  with  her.  "If  ever  a  decent  man 
asks  me  to  marry  him,  I'll  get  off  the  stage  stante 
pede."  It  was  almost  the  first  thing  she  told  me. 
You  have  heard  it  yourself  a  couple  of  times.  And 
now  he's  come — the  one  she  has  been  waiting  for — 
and  she's  to  get  married. 

PRINCE 

Hope  he's  decent  at  least. 

COUNT 

Yes,  you're  very  witty !  But  is  that  your  only  way 
of  showing  sympathy  in  a  serious  moment  like  this? 

PRINCE 

Now!     (He  puts  his  hand  on  the  Counfs  arm) 

COUNT 

Well,  I  assure  you,  it's  a  serious  moment.  It's  no 
small  matter  when  you  have  lived  twenty  years  with 
somebody — in  a  7J£flr-marital  state;  when  you  have 
been  spending  your  best  years  with  her,  and  really 
shared  her  joys  and  sorrows — until  you  have  come 
to  think  at  last,  that  it's  never  going  to  end — and 
then  she  comes  to  you  one  fine  day  and  says :  "God 
bless  you,  dear,  but  I'm  going  to  get  wedded  on  the 


270  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

sixteenth  ..."  Oh,  damn  the  whole  story!  {He 
gets  up  and  begins  to  walk  about)  And  I  can't 
blame  her  even.  Because  I  understand  perfectly.  So 
what  can  you  do  about  it? 

PEINCE 

You've  always  been  much  too  kind,  Arpad. 

COUNT 

Nothing  kind  about  it.  Why  shouldn't  I  under- 
stand.? The  clock  has  struck  thirty-eight  for  her. 
And  she  has  said  adieu  to  her  profession.  So  that 
anybody  can  sympathize  with  her  feeling  that  there 
is  no  fun  to  go  on  as  a  ballet  dancer  retired  on  half 
pay  and  mistress  on  active  service  to  Count  Paz- 
mandy,  who'll  be  nothing  but  an  old  fool  either,  as 
time  runs  along.  Of  course,  I  have  been  prepared 
for  it.  And  I  haven't  blamed  her  a  bit — 'pon  my 
soul! 

PRINCE 

So  you  have  parted  as  perfect  friends.? 

COUNT 

Certainly.  In  fact,  our  leave-taking  was  quite  jolly. 
'Pon  my  soul,  I  never  suspected  at  first  how  tough 
it  would  prove.  It's  only  by  degrees  it  has  come 
home  to  me.  And  that's  quite  a  remarkable  story, 
I  must  say  .   .   . 

PRINCE 

What's  remarkable  about  it? 

COUNT 

I  suppose  I  had  better  tell  you  all  about  it.  On  my 
way  home  that  last  time — one  night  last  week — I 
had  a  feeling  all  of  a  sudden — I  don't  know  how  to 
express  it  .  .  .  tremendously  relieved,  that's  what  I 
felt.      Now  you   are   a  free  man,  I  said  to  myself. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  271 

Don't  have  to  drive  to  Mayerhof  Street  ^  every  night 
God  grants  you,  merely  to  dine  and  chatter  with 
Lolo,  or  just  sit  there  listening  to  her.  Had  come 
to  be  pretty  boresome  at  times,  you  know.  And 
then  the  drive  home  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and, 
on  top  of  it,  to  be  called  to  account  when  you  hap- 
pened to  be  dining  with  a  friend  in  the  Casino  or 
taking  your  daughter  to  the  opera  or  a  theater.  To 
cut  it  short — I  was  in  high  feather  going  home  that 
night.  My  head  was  full  of  plans  already.  .  .  .  No, 
nothing  of  the  kind  you  have  in  mind !  But  plans 
for  traveling,  as  I  have  long  wanted  to  do — to 
Africa,  or  India,  like  a  free  man  .  .  .  That  is,  I 
should  have  brought  my  little  girl  along,  of  course. 
.  .  .  Yes,  you  may  well  laugh  at  my  calling  her  a 
little  girl  still. 

PRINCE 

Nothing  of  the  kind.  Mizzie  looks  exactly  like  a 
young  girl.  Like  quite  a  young  one.  Especially  in 
that  Florentine  straw  hat  she  was  wearing  a  while 
ago. 

COUNT  \ 

Like  a  young  girl,  you  say !  And  yet  she's  exactly 
of  an  age  with  Lolo.  You  know,  of  course !  Yes, 
we're  growing  old,  Egon.  Every  one  of  us.  Oh, 
yes  .  .  .  And  lonely.  But  really,  I  didn't  notice  it 
to  begin  with.  It  was  only  by  degrees  it  got  hold  of 
me.  The  first  days  after  that  farewell  feast  were 
not  so  very  bad.  But  the  day  before  yesterday,  and 
yesterday,  as  the  time  approached  when  I  used  to 

*  A  street  in  the  district  of  Wieden,  near  one  of  the  principal 
shopping  districts  and  leading  to  the  great  Theresian  Riding 
Academy. 


272  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

start  for  Mayerhof  Street  .  .  .  And  when  Peter 
brought  in  those  roses  a  moment  ago — for  Lolo,  of 
course — why,  then  it  seemed  pretty  plain  to  me  that 
I  had  become  a  widower  for  the  second  time  in  my 
life.  Yes,  my  dear  fellow.  And  this  time  forever. 
Now  comes  the  loneliness.    It  has  come  already. 

PRINCE 

But  that's  nonsense — loneliness  ! 

COUNT 

Pardon  me,  but  you  can't  understand.  Your  way  of 
living  has  been  so  different  from  mine.  You  have 
not  let  yourself  be  dragged  into  anything  new  since 
your  poor  wife  died  ten  years  ago.  Into  nothing 
of  a  serious  nature,  I  mean.  And  besides,  you  have 
a  profession,  in  a  sense. 

PEINCE 

Havel? 

COUNT 

Well,  as  a  member  of  the  Upper  House. 

PRINCE 

Oh,  I  see. 

COUNT 

And  twice  you  have  almost  been  put  into  the  cabinet. 

PRINCE 

Yes,  almost.  .  .  . 

COUNT 

Who  knows?  Perhaps  you  will  break  in  some  time. 
And  I'm  all  done.  Had  myself  retired  three  years 
ago  in  the  bargain — like  a  fool. 

PRINCE  {with  a  smile) 

That's  why  you  are  a  free  man  now.  Perfectly  free. 
With  the  world  open  before  you. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  273 


COUNT 

And  no  desire  to  do  a  thing,  old  man.  That's  the 
whole  story.  Since  that  time  I  haven't  gone  to  the 
Casino  even.  Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  doing 
the  last  few  nights?  I  have  sat  under  that  tree  with 
Mizzie — playing  domino. 

PEINCE 

Well,  don't  you  see?  That's  not  to  be  lonely.  When 
you  have  a  daughter,  and  particularly  such  a  sensi- 
ble one,  with  whom  you  have  always  got  on  so  well 
.  .  .  What  does  she  say  about  your  staying  at  home 
nights  anyhow? 

COUNT 

Nothing.  Besides,  it  has  happened  before,  quite 
frequently.  She  says  nothing  at  all.  And  what 
could  she  say?  It  seems  to  me  she  has  never  noticed 
anything.  Do  you  think  she  can  have  known  about 
Lolo? 

PEINCE  (laughing) 
Man  alive! 

COUNT 

Of  course.  Yes,  I  know.  Of  course,  she  must  have 
known.  But  then,  I  was  still  almost  a  young  man 
when  her  mother  died.  I  hope  it  hasn't  hurt  her 
feelings. 

PEINCE 

No,  that  wouldn't.  {Casual! ji)  But  being  left  so 
much  alone  may  have  troubled  her  at  times,  I  should 
think. 

COUNT 

Has  she  complained  of  me?  There's  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  tell  me. 


274.  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

PKINCE 

I  am  not  in  her  confidence.  She  has  never  com- 
plained to  me.  And,  heavens,  it  may  never  have 
troubled  her  at  all.  She  has  so  long  been  accustomed 
to  this  quiet,  retired  life. 

COUNT 

Yes,  and  she  seems  to  have  a  taste  for  it,  too.  And 
then  she  used  to  go  out  a  good  deal  until  a  few  years 
ago.  Between  you  and  me,  Egon,  as  late  as  three 
years  ago — no,  two  years  ago — I  still  thought  she 
might  make  the  plunge  after  all. 

PRINCE 

What  plunge.?     Oh,  I  see  .   .   . 

COUNT 

If  you  could  only  guess  what  kind  of  men  have  been 
paying  attention  to  her  quite  recently  .   .  . 

PEINCE 

That's  only  natural. 

COUNT 

But  she  won't.  She  absolutely  won't.  What  I  mean 
is,  that  she  can't  be  feeling  so  very  lonely  .  .  . 
otherwise  she  would  ...  as  she  has  had  plenty  of 
opportunity  .  .  . 

PEINCE 

Certainly.  It's  her  own  choice.  And  then  Mizzie 
has  an  additional  resource  in  her  painting.  It's  a 
case  like  that  of  my  blessed  aunt,  the  late  Fanny 
Hohenstein,  who  went  on  writing  books  to  a  vener- 
able old  age  and  never  wanted  to  hear  a  word  about 
marriage. 

COUNT 

It  may  have  some  connection  with  her  artistic  as- 
pirations.    At  times  I'm  inclined  to  look  for  some 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  275 


psychological  connection  between  all  these  morbid 
tendencies. 

PRINCE 

Morbid,  you  say?  But  you  can't  possibly  call  Miz- 
zie  morbid. 

COUNT 

Oh,  it's  all  over  now.    But  there  was  a  time  .  ,  . 

PRINCE 

I  liave  always  found  IMizzie  very  sensible  and  very 
well  balanced.  After  all,  painting  roses  and  violets 
doesn't  prove  a  person  morbid  by  any  means. 

COUNT 

You  don't  think  me  such  a  fool  that  her  violets  and 
roses  could  make  me  believe  .  .  .  But  if  you  remem- 
ber when  she  was  still  a  young  girl  . 

PRINCE 

What  then? 

COUNT 

Oh,  that  story  at  the  time  Fedor  Wangenheim 
wanted  to  marry  her. 

PRINCE 

O  Lord,  are  you  still  thinking  of  that?  Besides, 
there  was  no  truth  in  it.  And  that  was  eighteen  or 
twenty  years  ago  almost. 

COUNT 

Her  wanting  to  join  the  Ursuline  Sisters  rather 
than  marr}'^  that  nice  young  fellow,  to  whom  she  was 
as  good  as  engaged  already — and  then  up  and  away 
from  home  all  at  once — you  might  call  that  morbid, 
don't  you  think? 

PRINCE 

What  has  put  you  in  mind  of  that  ancient  story  to- 
day? 


276  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

COUNT 

Ancient,  you  say?  I  feel  as  if  it  happened  last  year 
only.  It  was  at  the  very  time  when  my  own  affair 
with  Lolo  had  just  begun.  Ah,  harking  back  like 
that  .  .  .  !  And  if  anybody  had  foretold  me  at  the 
time  .  .  .  !  You  know,  it  really  began  hke  any 
ordinary  adventure.  In  the  same  reckless,  crazy 
way.  Yes,  crazy — that's  it.  Not  that  I  want  to 
make  myself  out  worse  than  I  am,  but  it  was  lucky 
for  all  of  us  that  my  poor  wife  had  already  been 
dead  a  couple  of  years.  Lolo  seemed  .  .  .  my  fate. 
Mistress  and  wife  at  the  same  time.  Because  she's 
such  a  wonderful  cook,  you  know.  And  the  way 
she  makes  you  comfortable.  And  always  in  good 
humor — never  a  cross  word  .  .  .  Well,  it's  all  over. 
Don't  let  us  talk  of  it  .  .  .  (Pause)  Tell  me,  won't 
you  stay  for  lunch  ?  And  I  must  call  Mizzie. 
PKiNCE  (checking  him) 

Wait — I  have  something  to  tell  you.     (Casually,  al- 
most facetiously)     I  want  you  to  be  prepared. 

COUNT 

Why?     For  what.? 

PEINCE 

There  is  a  young  man  coming  here  to  be  introduced. 

COUNT   (astonished) 

What?    A  young  man? 

PEINCE 

If  you  have  no  objection. 

COUNT 

Why  should  I  object?    But  who  is  he? 

PEINCE 

Dear  Arpad — he's  my  son. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  277 


COUNT  {greatly  surprised) 
What? 

PRINCE 

Yes,  my  son.  You  see,  I  didn't  want — as  I'm  going 
away  .   .  . 

COUNT 

Your  son?     You've  got  a  son? 

PRINCE 

I  have. 

COUNT 

Well,  did  you  ever  .  .  .  !  You  have  got  a  young 
man  who  is  your  son — or  rather,  you  have  got  a 
son  who  is  a  young  man.    How  old  ? 

PRINCE 

Seventeen. 

COUNT 

Seventeen!  And  you  haven't  told  me  before!  No, 
Egon  .  .  .  Egon  I  And  tell  me  .  .  .  seventeen 
.  .  .  ?  My  dear  chap,  then  your  wife  was  still 
alive  .  .  . 

PRINCE 

Yes,  my  wife  was  still  alive  at  the  time.  You  sec, 
Arpad,  one  gets  mixed  up  in  all  sorts  of  strange 
affairs. 

COUNT 

'Pon  my  soul,  so  it  seems ! 

PRINCE 

And  thus,  one  fine  day,  you  find  yourself  having  a 
son  of  seventeen  with  whom  you  go  traveling. 

COUNT 

So  it's  with  him  you  are  going  away? 

PRINCE 

I  am  taking  that  liberty. 


278  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

COUNT 

No,  I  couldn't  possibly  tell  you  .  .  .  Why,  he  has 
got  a  son  of  seventeen!  .  .  .  {Suddenly  he  grasps 
the  hand  of  the  Prince,  and  then  puts  his  arms 
about  him)  And  if  I  may  ask  .  .  .  the  mother  of 
that  young  gentleman,  your  son  .  .  .  how  it  hap- 
pens ...  as  you  have  started  telling  me  .  .  . 

PRINCE 

She's  dead  long  ago.  Died  a  couple  of  weeks  after 
he  was  born.    A  mere  slip  of  a  girl. 

COUNT 

Of  the  common  people? 

PRINCE 

Oh,  of  course.  But  a  charming  creature.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  everything  about  it.  That  is,  as  far 
as  I  can  recall  it  myself.  The  whole  story  seems 
like  a  dream.     And  if  it  were  not  for  the  boy  .  .  . 

COUNT 

And  all  that  you  tell  me  only  now !  To-day  only — 
just  before  the  boy  is  coming  here! 

PRINCE 

You  never  can  tell  how  a  thing  like  that  may  be  re- 
ceived. 

COUNT 

Tut,  tut!  Received,  you  say  .  .  .  ?  Did  you  be- 
lieve perhaps  .  .  .  I'm  something  of  a  philosopher 
myself,  after  all.  .  .  .  And  you  call  yourself  a 
friend  of  mine ! 

PRINCE 

Not  a  soul  has  known  it — not  a  single  soul  in  the 
whole  world. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  279 

COUNT 

But  you  might  have  told  me.  Really,  I  don't  see 
how  you  could   .   .   .  Come  now,  it  wasn't  quite  nice, 

PKINCE 

I  wanted  to  wait  and  see  how  the  boy  developed. 
You  never  can  tell  .   .   . 

COUNT 

Of  course,  with  a  mixed  pedigree  like  that  .  .  .  But 
you  seem  reassured  now.'* 

PRINCE 

Oh,  yes,  he's  a  fine  fellow. 
COUNT  (embracing  him  again) 

And  where  has  he  been  living  until  now? 

PRINCE 

His  earliest  years  were  spent  a  good  way  from 
Vienna — in  the  Tirol. 

COUNT 

With  peasants.'' 

PRINCE 

No,  with  a  small  landowner.  Then  he  went  to  school 
for  some  time  at  Innsbruck.  And  during  the  last 
few  years  I  have  been  sending  him  to  the  prepara- 
tory school  at  Krems.^ 

COUNT 

And  you  have  seen  him  frequently? 

PRINCE 

Of  course. 

COUNT 

And  what's  his  idea  of  it  anyhow? 

*  Innsbruck  is  the  capital  of  the  province  of  Tirol.  Krems  is  a 
small  city  on  the  Donau,  not  so  very  far  from  Vienna,  having  a 
fine  high  school  or  "gyninisium."  The  idea  is,  of  course,  that  as 
the  boy  grew  up,  liis  father  became  more  and  more  interested  and 
wanted  to  have  him  within  easier  reach. 


280  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

PRINCE 

Up  to  a  few  days  ago  he  thought  that  he  had  lost 
both  his   parents — his   father   as  well — and   that   I 
was  a  friend  of  his  dead  father. 
MIZZIE  (appearing  on  the  balcony) 
Good  morning,  Prince  Egon. 

PRINCE 

Good  morning,  Mizzie. 

COUNT 

Well,  won't  you  come  down  a  while? 

MIZZIE 

Oh,  if  I  am  not  in  the  way  .   .   ,   (She  disappears^ 

COUNT 

And  what  are  we  going  to  say  to  Mizzie? 

PRINCE 

I  prefer  to  leave  that  to  you,  of  course.     But  as  I 
am  adopting  the  boy  anyhow,  and  as  a  special  de- 
cree by  His   Majesty  will  probably  enable  him  to 
assume  my  name  in  a  few  days   .   .  . 
COUNT  (surprised) 
What? 

PRINCE 

...  I   think  it   would   be   wiser   to   tell  Mizzie  the 
truth  at  once. 

COUNT 

Certainly,  certainly — and  why  shouldn't  we?  See- 
ing that  you  are  adopting  him  .  .  .  It's  really 
funny — but,  you  see,  a  daughter,  even  when  she  gets 
to  be  an  old  maid,  is  notliing  but  a  little  girl  to  her 
father. 
MIZZIE  (appears;  she  is  thirty-seven,  but  still  very  at- 
tractive; wears  a  Florentine  straw  hat  and  a  white 
dress;  she  gives  the  Count  a  Jciss  before  holding  out 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  281 

her  hand  to  the  Prince)  Well,  how  do  you  do, 
Prince  Egon?    We  don't  see  much  of  you  these  days. 

PRINCE 

Thank  you. — Have  you  been  very  industrious? 

MIZZIE 

Painting  a  few  flowers. 

COUNT 

Why  so  modest,  Mizzie.''  {To  the  Prince)  Professor 
Windhofer  told  her  recently  that  she  could  safely  ex- 
hibit. Won't  have  to  fear  comparison  with  Mrs. 
Wisinger-Florian  herself.^ 

MIZZIE 

That's  so,  perhaps.  But  I  have  no  ambition  of  that 
kind. 

PRINCE 

I'm  rather  against  exhibiting,  too.  It  puts  you  at 
the  mercy  of  any  newspaper  scribbler. 

MIZZIE 

Well,  how  about  the  members  of  the  Upper  House — 
at  least  when  they  make  speeches? 

COUNT 

And  how  about  all  of  us?  Is  there  anything  into 
which  they  don't  poke  their  noses? 

PRINCE 

Yes,  thanks  to  prevailing  tendencies,  there  are  peo- 
ple who  would  blackguard  your  pictures  merely  be- 
cause you  happen  to  be  a  countess,  Mizzie. 

COUNT 

Yes,  you're  right  indeed. 
'  "Neben  der  Wiesiiiger-Florian."  The  name  is  slightly  misspelt 
in  the  German  text.  It  is  that  of  Mrs.  Olga  Wisinger-Florian,  a 
well-known  Viennese  painter  of  floral  pieces,  whose  work  is  repre- 
sented in  many  of  the  big  galleries  in  Europe.  She  was  born  in 
1844,  made  her  name  in  the  early  eighties,  and  is  still  living. 


282  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

VALET  {entering) 

Your  Grace  is  wanted  on  the  telephone. 

COUNT 

Who  is  it?     What  is  it  about? 

VALET 

There  is  somebody  who  wishes  to  speak  to  Your 
Grace  personally. 

COUNT 

You'll  have  to  excuse  me  a  moment.  {To  the  Prince, 
in  a  lowered  voice)  Tell  her  now — while  I  am  away. 
I  prefer  it.     {He  goes  out  followed  by  the  valet) 

MIZZIE 

Somebody  on  the  telephone — do  you  think  papa  can 
have  fallen  into  new  bondage  already?  {She  seats 
herself) 

PRINCE 

Into  new  bondage,  you  say? 

MIZZIE 

Lolo  used  always  to  telephone  about  this  time.  But 
it's  all  over  with  her  now.     You  know  it,  don't  you? 

PRINCE 

I  just  heard  it. 

MIZZIE 

And  what  do  you  think  of  it,  Prince  Egon.  I  am 
rather  sorry,  to  tell  the  truth.  If  he  tries  anything 
new  now,  I'm  sure  he'll  burn  his  fingers.  And  I  do 
fear  there  is  something  in  the  air.  You  see,  he's 
still  too  young  for  his  years. 

PRINCE 

Yes,  that's  so. 
MIZZIE  {turning  so  that  she  faces  the  Prince) 

And  by  the  way,  you  haven't  been  here  for  ever  so 
long. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  288 

PRINCE 

You  haven't  missed  me  very  much  ...  I  fear  .  .  . 
Your  art  .   .   .  and  heaven  knows  what  else  .  .  . 

MIZZLE  (without  affectation) 
Nevertheless  .   .   . 

PRINCE 

Awfully  kind  of  you  .  .  .   (Pause) 

MIZZIE 

What  makes  you  speechless  to-day.''  Tell  me  some- 
thing. Isn't  there  anything  new  in  the  world  at 
all? 

PRINCE  (as  if  he  had  thought  of  it  only  that  moment) 
Our  son  has  just  passed  his  examinations  for  the 
university. 

MIZZIE  (slightly  perturbed) 

I  hope  you  have  more  interesting  news  to  relate. 

PRINCE 

More  interesting  .  .  . 

MIZZIE 

Or  news,  at  least,  that  concerns  me  more  closely  than 
the  career  of  a  strange  young  man. 

PRINCE 

I  have  felt  obliged,  however,  to  keep  you  informed 
about  the  more  important  stages  in  the  career  of 
this  young  man.  When  he  was  about  to  be  con- 
firmed, I  took  the  liberty  to  report  the  fact  to 
you.  But,  of  course,  we  don't  have  to  talk  any  more 
about  it. 

MIZZIE 

He  pulled  through,  I  hope? 

PRINCE 

With  honors. 


284  COUNTESS    MIZZIP: 

MIZZLE 

The  stock  seems  to  be  improving. 

PRINCE 

Let  us  hope  so. 

MIZZIE 

And  now  the  great  moment  is  approaching,  I  sup- 
pose. 

PKINCE 

What  moment? 

MIZZIE 

Have  you  forgotten  already?  As  soon  as  he  had 
passed  his  examinations,  you  meant  to  reveal  your- 
self as  his  father! 

PRINCE 

So  I  have  done  already. 

MIZZIE 

You — have  told  him  already? 

PRINCE 

I  have. 
MIZZIE  (after  a  pause,  without  looking  at  him) 
And  his  mother — is  dead  .   .   .    ? 

PRINCE 

She  is — so  far. 

MIZZIE 

And  forever.     (Rising) 

PRINCE 

As  you  please. 

{The  Count  enters,  followed  hy  the  valet. 

VALET 

But  it  was  Your  Grace  who  said  that  Joseph  could 
be  free. 

COUNT 

Yes,  yes,  it's  all  right. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  286 


VALET    (goes  out) 
MIZZLE 

What's  the  matter,  papa? 

COUNT 

Nothing,  my  girl,  nothing,  I  wanted  to  get  some- 
where quick — and  that  infernal  Joseph  .  .  If  you 
don't  mind,  Mizzie,  I  want  to  have  a  few  words  with 
Egon  .  .  .  {To  the  Prince)  Do  you  know,  she 
has  been  trying  to  get  me  before.  I  mean  Lolo. 
But  she  couldn't  get  the  number.  And  now  Laura 
telephones — oh,  well,  that's  her  maid,  you  know — 
that  she  has  just  started  on  her  way  here. 

PRINCE 

Here?     To  see  you? 

COUNT 

Yes. 

PRINCE 

But  why? 

COUNT 

Oh,  I  think  I  can  guess.  You  see,  she  has  never  put 
her  foot  in  this  place,  of  course,  and  I  have  been 
promising  her  all  the  time  that  she  could  come  here 
once  to  have  a  look  at  the  house  and  the  park  be- 
fore she  married.  Her  standing  grievance  has  al- 
ways been  that  I  couldn't  receive  he;*  here.  On  ac- 
count of  IMizzie,  you  know.  Which  she  has  under- 
stood perfectly  well.  And  to  sneak  her  in  here  some 
time  when  Mizzie  was  not  at  home — well,  for  that  kind 
of  thing  I  have  never  had  any  taste.  And  so  she 
sends  me  a  telephone  message,  that  the  marriage  is 
set  for  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  that  she  is  on 
her  way  here  now. 


g86  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

PRINCE 

Well,  what  of  it?  She  is  not  coming  here  as  your 
mistress,  and  so  I  can't  see  that  you  have  any  rea- 
son for  embarrassment. 

COUNT 

But  to-day  of  all  days — and  with  your  son  due  at 
any  moment. 

PEINCE 

You  can  leave  him  to  me. 

COUNT 

But  I  don't  want  it.  I'm  going  to  meet  the  carriage 
and  see  if  I  can  stop  her.  It  makes  me  nervous. 
You'll  have  to  ask  your  son  to  excuse  me  for  a  little 
while.  Good-by,  Mizzie.  I'll  be  back  right  away. 
{He  goes  out) 

PRINCE 

Miss  Lolo  has  sent  word  that  she's  coming  to  call, 
and  your  papa  doesn't  like  it. 

MIZZIE 

What's  that.?  Has  Lolo  sent  word.?  Is  she  coming 
here  ? 

PEINCE 

Your  father  has  been  promising  her  a  chance  to  look 
over  the  place  before  she  was  married.  And  now 
he  has  gone  to  meet  the  carriage  in  order  to  steer 
her  off. 

MIZZLE 

How  childish !  And  how  pathetic,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it !  I  should  really  like  to  make  her  ac- 
quaintance. Don't  you  think  it's  too  silly?  There 
is  my  father,  spending  half  his  lifetime  with  a  per- 
son who  is  probably  very  attractive — and  I  don't 
get  a  chance — don't  have  the  right — to  shake  hands 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  287 


with  her  even.  Why  docs  he  object  to  it  anyhow? 
He  ouffht  to  understand  that  I  know  all  about  it. 

PRINCE 

Oh,  heavens,  that's  the  way  he  is  made.  And  per- 
haps he  might  not  have  minded  so  much,  if  he  were 
not  expecting  another  visit  at  this  very  moment  .  .  . 

MIZZIE 

Another  visit,  you  say? 

PRINCE 

For  which  I  took  the  liberty  to  prepare  him. 

MIZZIE 

Who  is  it? 

PRINCE 

Our  son. 

MIZZIE 

Are  you  .  .  .  bringing  your  son  here? 

PRINCE 

He'll  be  here  in  half  an  hour  at  the  most. 

MIZZIE 

I  say.  Prince  .  .  .  this  is  not  a  joke  you're  trying 
to  spring  on  me? 

PRINCE 

By  no  means.     On  a  departed  .  .  .  what  an  idea! 

MIZZEE 

Is  it  really  true?    He's  coming  here? 

PRINCE 

Yes. 

MIZZLE 

Apparently  you  still  think  that  nothing  but  a  whim 
keeps  me  from  having  anything  to  do  with  the  boy? 

PRINCE 

A  whim  .  .  .  ?  No.  Seeing  how  consistent  you 
have  been  in  this   matter,   it  would  hardly  be  safe 


288  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 


for  me  to  call  it  that.  And  when  I  bear  in  mind 
how  you  have  had  the  strength  all  these  years  not 
even  to  ask  any  questions  about  him  .  .  . 

MIZZIE 

There  has  been  nothing  admirable  about  that.  I 
have  had  the  strength  to  do  what  was  worse  .  .  . 
when  I  had  to  let  him  be  taken  away  ...  a  week 
after  he  was  born  .   .  . 

PRINCE 

Yes,  what  else  could  you — could  we  have  done  at 
the  time?  The  arrangements  made  by  me  at  the 
time,  and  approved  by  you  in  the  end,  represented 
absolutely  the  most  expedient  thing  we  could  do  un- 
der the  circumstances. 

MIZZIE 

I  have  never  questioned  their  expediency. 

PRINCE 

It  was  more  than  expedient,  Mizzie.  More  than  our 
own  fate  was  at  stake.  Others  might  have  come  to 
grief  if  the  truth  had  been  revealed  at  the  time.  My 
wife,  with  her  weak  heart,  had  probably  never  sur- 
vived. 

MIZZIE 

Oh,  that  weak  heart  .   .  . 

PRINCE 

And  your  father,  Mizzie  .  .  .  Think  of  your  fa- 
ther! 

MIZZIE 

You  may  be  sure  he  would  have  accepted  the  in- 
evitable. That  was  the  very  time  when  he  began  his 
affair  with  Lolo.  Otherwise  everything  might  not 
have  come  off  so  smoothly.  Otherwise  he  might  have 
been  more  concerned  about  me.     I  could  never  have 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  289 

stayed  away  several  months  if  he  hadn't  found  it 
very  convenient  at  that  particular  moment.  And 
there  was  only  one  danger  connected  with  the  whole 
story — that  you  might  be  shot  dead  by  Fedor  Wan- 
genheim,  my  dear  Prince. 

PEINCE 

Why  I  by  him?  It  might  have  taken  another  turn. 
You  are  not  a  believer  in  judgment  by  ordeal,  are 
you?  And  the  outcome  might  have  proved  ques- 
tionable from  such  a  point  of  view  even.  You  see, 
we  poor  mortals  can  never  be  sure  how  things  of 
that  kind  are  regarded  up  above. 

MIZZIE 

You  would  never  talk  like  that  in  the  Upper  House 
— supposing  you  ever  opened  your  mouth  during 
one  of  its  sessions. 

PEINCE 

Possibly  not.  But  the  fundamental  thing  remains, 
that  no  amount  of  honesty  or  daring  could  have 
availed  in  the  least  at  the  time.  It  would  have  been 
nothing  but  useless  cruelty  toward  those  nearest  to 
us.  It's  doubtful  whether  a  dispensation  could  have 
been  obtained — and  besides,  the  Princess  would 
never  have  agreed  to  a  divorce — which  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do. 

MIZZIE 

Just  as  if  I  had  cared  in  the  least  for  the  cere- 
mony .  .  .    ! 

PRINCE 

Oh  .  .  . 

MIZZIE 

Not  in  the  least.  Is  that  new  to  you?  Didn't  I 
tell  you  so  at  the  time?    Oh,  you'll  never  guess  what 


290  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

might  .  .  .  (her  words  emphasized  hy  her  glance) 
what  I  ...  of  what  I  might  have  been  capable  at 
that  time.  I  would  have  followed  you  anywhere — 
everywhere — even  as  your  mistress.  I  and  the  child. 
To  Switzerland,  to  America.  After  all,  we  could 
have  lived  wherever  it  happened  to  suit  us.  And 
perhaps,  if  you  had  gone  away,  they  might  never 
even  have  noticed  your  absence  in  the  Upper  House. 

PEINCE 

Yes,  of  course,  we  might  have  run  away  and  settled 
down  somewhere  abroad  .  .  .  But  do  you  still  be- 
lieve that  a  situation  like  that  would  have  proved 
agreeable  in  the  long  run,  or  even  bearable.? 

MIZZLE 

No,  I  don't  nowadays.  Because,  you  see,  I  know 
you  now.  But  at  that  time  I  was  in  love  with  you. 
And  it  is  possible  that  I — might  have  gone  on  lov- 
ing you  for  a  long  time,  had  you  not  proved  too 
cowardly  to  assume  the  responsibility  for  what  had 
happened  .  .  .  Yes,  too  much  of  a  coward.  Prince 
Egon. 

PEINCE 

Whether  that  be  the  proper  word  .  .  . 

MIZZIE 

Well,  I  don't  know  of  any  other.  There  was  no  hesi- 
tation on  my  part.  I  was  ready  to  face  everything 
— with  joy  and  pride.  I  was  ready  to  be  a  mother, 
and  to  confess  myself  the  mother  of  our  child.  And 
you  knew  it,  Egon.  I  told  you  so  seventeen  years 
ago,  in  that  little  house  in  the  woods  where^you  kept 
me  hidden.  But  half-measures  have  never  appealed 
to  me.  I  wanted  to  be  a  mother  in  every  respect  or 
not  at  all.     The  day  I  had  to  let  the  boy  be  taken 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  291 

away  from  me,  I  made  up  my  mind  never  more  to 
trouble  myself  about  him.  And  for  that  reason  I 
find  it  ridiculous  of  you  to  bring  him  here  all  of  a 
sudden.  If  you'll  allow  me  to  give  you  a  piece  of 
good  advice,  you'll  go  and  meet  him,  as  papa  has 
gone  to  meet  Lolo — and  take  him  back  home  again. 

PRINCE 

I  wouldn't  dream  of  doing  so.  After  what  I  have 
just  had  to  hear  from  you  again,  it  seems  settled 
that  his  mother  must  remain  dead.  And  that  means 
that  I  must  take  still  better  care  of  him.  He  is  my 
son  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  too.  I  have  adopted 
him. 

MIZZIE 

Have  you  .  .  .   ? 

PRINCE 

To-morrow  he  will  probably  be  able  to  assume  my 
name.  I  shall  introduce  him  wherever  it  suits  me. 
And  of  course,  first  of  all  to  my  old  friend — your 
father.  If  you  should  find  the  sight  of  him  disa- 
greeable, there  will  be  nothing  left  for  you  but  to 
stay  in  your  room  while  he  is  here. 

MIZZIE 

If  you  believe  that  I  think  your  tone  very  appro- 
priate .  .  . 

PRINCE 

Oh,  just  as  appropriate  as  your  bad  temper. 

MIZZIE 

My  bad  temper  .  .  .  ?  Do  I  look  it?  Really,  if 
you  please  ...  I  have  simply  permitted  myself  to 
find  this  fancy  of  yours  in  rather  poor  taste. 
Otherwise  my  temper  is  just  as  good  as  ever. 


292  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

PRINCE 

I  have  no  doubt  of  your  good  humor  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances  ...  I  am  perfectly  aware,  for 
that  matter,  that  you  have  managed  to  become 
reconciled  to  your  fate.  I,  too,  have  managed  to 
submit  to  a  fate  which,  in  its  own  way,  has  been  no 
less  painful  than  yours. 

MIZZIE 

In  what  way.''  To  what  fate  have  you  had  to  sub- 
mit .  .  .  ?  Everybody  can't  become  a  cabinet  min- 
ister. Oh,  I  see  .  .  .  that  remark  must  refer  to 
the  fact  that  His  Highness  did  me  the  honor  ten 
years  ago,  after  the  blissful  departure  of  his  noble 
spouse,  to  apply  for  my  hand. 

PKTNCE 

And  again  seven  years  ago,  if  you'll  be  kind  enough 
to  remember. 

MIZZIE 

Oh,  yes,  I  do  remember.  Nor  have  I  ever  given 
you  any  cause  to  question  my  good  memory. 

PRINCE 

And  I  hope  you  have  never  ascribed  my  proposals 
to  anything  like  a  desire  to  expiate  some  kind  of 
guilt.  I  asked  you  to  become  my  wife  simply  be- 
cause of  my  conviction  that  true  happiness  was  to 
be  found  only  by  your  side. 

MIZZIE 

True  happiness!  .   .   .  Oh,  what  a  mistake! 

PRINCE 

Yes,  I  do  believe  that  it  was  a  mistake  at  that  mo- 
ment. Ten  years  ago  it  was  probably  still  too  early. 
And  so  it  was,  perhaps,  seven  years  ago.  But  not 
to-day. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  293 

MIZZIE 

Yes,  to-daj  too,  my  dear  Prince.  Your  fate  has 
been  never  to  know  me,  never  to  understand  me  at 
all — no  more  when  I  loved  you  than  when  I  hated 
you,  and  not  even  during  the  long  time  when  I  have 
been  completely  indifferent  toward  you. 

PRINCE 

I  have  always  known  you,  Mizzie.  I  know  more 
about  you  than  you  seem  able  to  guess.  Thus,  for 
instance,  I  am  not  unfamiliar  with  the  fact  that 
you  have  spent  the  last  seventeen  years  in  more 
profitable  pursuits  than  weeping  over  a  man  who, 
in  all  likelihood,  was  not  worthy  of  you  at  the  time 
in  question.  I  am  even  aware  that  you  have  chosen 
to  expose  yourself  to  several  disillusionments  subse- 
quent to  the  one  suffered  at  my  hands. 

MIZZIE 

Disillusionments,  you  say.''  Well,  for  your  consola- 
tion, my  dear  Prince,  I  can  assure  you  that  some  of 
them  proved  very  enjoyable. 

TRINCE 

I  know  that,  too.  Otherwise  I  should  hardly  have 
dared  to  call  myself  familiar  with  the  history  of 
your  life. 

MIZZIE 

And  do  you  think  that  I  am  not  familiar  with  yours  ? 
Do  you  want  me  to  present  you  with  a  list  of  your 
mistresses?  From  the  wife  of  the  Bulgarian  attache 
in  1887  down  to  Mademoiselle  Therese  Gredun — if 
that  be  her  real  name — who  retained  the  honors  of 
her  office  up  to  last  Spring  at  least.  It  seems  likely 
that  I  know  more  than  you  even,  for  I  can  give  you 


294  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

a  practically  complete  list  of  those  with  whom  she 
has  deceived  you. 

PRINCE 

Oh,  don't,  if  you  please.     There  is  no  real  pleasure 

in  knowledge  of  that  kind  when  you  don't  uncover  it 

yourself. 

[^  carriage  is  heard  stopping  in  front  of  the  house. 

PEINCE 

That's   he.      Do   you  want   to   disappear  before   he 
comes  out  here.?     I  can  detain  him  that  long. 

MIZZIE 

Don't  trouble  yourself,  please.  I  prefer  to  stay. 
But  don't  imagine  that  there  is  anything  astir  within 
me.  .  .  .  This  is  nothing  but  a  young  man  coming 
to  call  on  my  father.  There  he  is  now.  ...  As  to 
blood  being  thicker  than  water — I  think  it's  nothing 
but  a  fairy  tale.  I  can't  feel  anything  at  all,  my 
dear  Prince. 
PHILIP  (comes  quickly  through  the  main  entrance;  he 
is  seventeen,  slender,  handsome,  elegant,  but  not  fop- 
pish; shows  a  charming,  though  somewhat  boyish, 
forwardness,  not  quite  free  from  embarrassment) 
Good  morning.     {He  bows  to  Mizzie) 

PEINCE 

Good  morning,  Philip. — Countess,  will  you  permit 
me  to  introduce  my  son.''  This  is  Countess  Mizzie, 
daughter  of  the  old  friend  of  mine  in  whose  house 
you  are  now. 
PHILIP  (kisses  the  hand  offered  him  by  Mizzie;  brief 
pause) 

MIZZIE 

Won't  you  be  seated,  please.? 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  295 

PHILIP 

Thank  you,  Countess.     (All  remain  standing) 

PRIKCE 

You  came  in  the  carriage?  Might  just  as  well  send 
it  back,  as  mine  is  here  already. 

PHILIP 

Won't  you  come  back  with  me  instead,  papa?  You 
see,  I  think  Wasner  does  a  great  deal  better  than 
your  Franz  with  his  team  of  ancients. 

MIZZIE 

So  Wasner  has  been  driving  you? 

PHILIP 

Yes. 

MIZZIE 

The  old  man  himself?  Do  you  know  that's  a  great 
honor?  Wasner  won't  take  the  box  for  everybody. 
Up  to  about  two  years  ago  he  used  to  drive  my 
father. 

PHILIP 

Oh  .  .  . 

PEINCE 

You're  a  little  late,  by  the  way,  Philip. 

PHILIP 

Yes,  I  have  to  beg  your  pardon.  Overslept,  you 
know.  {To  Mizzie)  I  was  out  with  some  of  my  col- 
leagues last  night.  You  may  have  heard  that  I 
passed  my  examinations  a  couple  of  weeks  ago, 
Countess.  That's  why  we  rather  made  a  night 
of  it.i 

'"  .  .  .  Ein  bissel  gedraht."  The  term  is  specifically  Viennese 
and  implies  not  only  "making  a  night  of  it,"  but  also  making  the 
contents  of  that  night  as  varied  as  the  resources  of  the  locality 
will  permit. 


296  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 


MIZZLE 

You  seem  to  have  caught  on  to  our  Viennese  ways 
pretty  quickly,  Mister  .  .  . 

PRINCE 

Oh,  dear  Mizzie,  call  him  Philip,  please. 

MIZZIE 

But  I  think  we  must  sit  down  first  of  all,  Phihp. 
(With  a  glance  at  the  Prince)  Papa  should  be  here 
any  moment  now.     (She  and  the  Prince  sit  down) 

PHILIP  (still  standing) 

If  you  permit  me  to  say  so — I  think  the  park  is  mag- 
nificent.    It  is  much  finer  than  ours. 

MIZZIE 

You  are  familiar  with  the  Ravenstcin  park? 

PHILIP 

Certainly,  Countess.  I  have  been  living  at  Raven- 
stein  House  three  days  already. 

MIZZIE 

Is  that  so? 

PRINCE 

Of  course,  gardens  cannot  do  as  well  in  the  city  as 
out  here.  Ours  was  probably  a  great  deal  more 
beautiful  a  hundred  years  ago.  But  then  our  place 
was  still  practically  outside  the  city. 

PHILIP 

It's  a  pity  that  all  sorts  of  people  have  been  allowed 
to  run  up  houses  around  our  place  like  that. 

MIZZIE 

We  are  better  off  in  that  respect.     And  we  shall 
hardly  live  to  see  the  town  overtake  us. 
PHILIP  (affably) 

But  why  not,  Countess? 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  297 


MIZZIE 

A  hundred  years  ago  tliese  grounds  were  still  used 
for  hunting.  The  place  adjoins  the  Tiergarten,  you 
know.  Look  over  that  wall  there,  Philip.  And  our 
villa  was  a  hunting  lodge  once,  belonging  to  the 
Empress  Maria  Theresa.  The  stone  figure  over 
there  goes  back  to  that  period. 

PHILIP 

And  how  old  is  our  place,  papa? 
PRINCE  (smiling) 

Our  place,  sonny,  dates  back  to  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. Didn't  I  show  you  the  room  in  which  Em- 
peror Leopold  spent  a  night.'* 

PHILIP 

Emperor  Leopold,  1643  to  1705. 
MIZZIE  (laughs) 

PHILIP 

Oh,  that's  an  echo  of  the  examinations.  When  I  get 
old  enough  .  .  .  (He  interrupts  himself)  I  beg 
your  pardon!  What  I  meant  to  say  was  simply 
— all  that  stuff  will  be  out  of  my  head  in  a  year. 
And,  of  course,  when  I  learned  those  dates,  I  didn't 
know  Emperor  Leopold  had  been  such  a  good  friend 
of  my  own  people. 

MIZZIE 

You  seem  to  think  your  discovery  enormously  funny, 
Philip.? 

PHILIP 

Discovery,  you  say  .  .  .  Well,  frankly  speaking,  it 
could  hardly  be  called  that.  (He  looks  at  the 
Prince) 

PRINCE 

Go  on,  go  on ! 


298  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

PHILIP 

Well,  you  see,  Countess,  I  have  always  had  the  feel- 
ing that  I  was  no  Philip  Radeiner  by  birth. 

MIZZIE 

Radeiner?  (To  the  Prince)  Oh,  that  was  the 
name  .  .  .   ? 

PRINCE 

Yes. 

PHILIP 

And,  of  course,  it  was  very  pleasant  to  find  my  sus- 
picions confirmed — but  I  have  really  known  it  all 
the  time.  I  can  put  two  and  two  together.  And 
some  of  the  other  boys  had  also  figured  out — that 
I  .  .  .  Really,  Countess,  that  story  about  Prince 
Ravenstein  coming  to  Krems  merely  to  see  how  the 
son  of  his  late  friend  was  getting  along — don't  you 
think  it  smacked  a  little  too  much  of  story  book 
.  .  .  Home  and  Family  Library,  and  that  sort  of 
thing?  All  the  clever  ones  felt  pretty  sure  that  I 
was  of  noble  blood,  and  as  I  was  one  of  the  clever- 

%ZO  Lr         •         •         • 

MIZZIE 

So  it  seems  .  .  .  And  what  are  your  plans  for  the 
future,  Philip? 

PHILIP 

Next  October  I  shall  begin  my  year  as  volunteer 
with  the  Sixth  Dragoons,  which  is  the  regiment  in 
which  we  Ravensteins  always  serve.  And  what's 
going  to  happen  after  that — whether  I  stay  in  the 
army  or  become  an  archbishop — in  due  time,  of 
course  .  .  . 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  299 

MIZZIE 

That  would  probably  be  the  best  thing.  The  Raven- 
steins  have  always  been  strong  in  the  faith. 

PHILIP 

Yes,  it's  mentioned  in  the  Universal  History  even. 
They  were  Catholic  at  first ;  then  they  turned  Protes- 
tant in  the  Thirty  Years  War;  and  finally  they  be- 
came Catholic  again — but  they  always  remained 
strong  in  their  faith.  It  was  only  the  faith  that 
changed. 

PRINCE 

Philip,  Philip ! 

MIZZIE 

That's  the  spirit  of  the  time,  Prince  Egon. 

PRINCE 

And  an  inheritance  from  his  mother. 

MIZZIE 

You  have  been  working  hard,  your  father  tells  me, 
and  have  passed  your  examinations  with  honors. 

PHILIP 

Well,  that  wasn't  difficult,  Countess.  I  seem  to  get 
hold  of  things  quickly.  That's  probably  another  re- 
sult of  the  common  blood  in  me.  And  I  had  time  to 
spare  for  things  not  in  the  school  curriculum — such 
as  horseback  riding  and  .  .  . 

MIZZIE 

And  what.-* 

PHILIP 

Playing  the  clarinet. 
MIZZIE  {laughing) 

Why  did  you  hesitate  to  tell  about  that? 

PHILIP 

Because  .   .   .  Well,  because  everybody  laughs  when 


300  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

I  say  that  I  play  the  clarinet.  And  so  did  you,  too, 
Countess,  Isn't  that  queer?  Did  anybody  ever 
laugh  because  you  told  him  that  you  were  painting 
for  a  diversion? 

MIZZIE 

So  you  have  already  heard  about  that? 

PHILIP 

Yes,  indeed.  Countess — papa  told  me.  And  be- 
sides, there  is  a  floral  piece  in  my  bedroom — a  Chi- 
nese vase,  you  know,  with  a  laburnum  branch  and 
something  purplish  in  color. 

MIZZIE 

That  purplish  stuff  must  be  lilacs. 

PHILIP 

Oh,  lilacs,  of  course.  I  saw  that  at  once.  But  I 
couldn't  recall  the  name  just  now. 

VALET  (entering) 

There  is  a  lady  who  wishes  to  see  the  Count.  I  have 
showed  her  into  the  drawing-room. 

MIZZIE 

A  lady  .  .  .  ?  You'll  have  to  excuse  me  for  a  mo- 
ment, gentlemen.     (She  goes  out) 

PHILIP 

That's  all  right,  papa — if  it's  up  to  me,  I  have  no 
objection. 

PRINCE 

To  what?    Of  what  are  you  talking? 

PHILIP 

I  have  no  objection  to  your  choice. 

PEINCE 

Have  you  lost  your  senses,  boy? 

PHILIP 

But  really,  papa,  do  you  think  you  can  hide  any- 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  301 

thing  from  me?  That  common  blood  in  mc,  you 
know  .  .  . 

PRINCE 

What  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head? 

PHILIP 

Now  look  here,  papa!  You  have  been  telling  mc 
how  anxious  you  were  to  introduce  me  to  your  old 
friend,  the  Count.  And  then  tlic  Count  has  a  daugh- 
ter— which  I  have  known  all  the  time,  by  the  way. 
.  .  .  The  one  thing  I  feared  a  little  was  that  she 
might  be  too  young. 

PRINCE  (offended,  and  yet  unable  to  keep  serious) 
Too  young,  you  say  .  .  . 

PHILIP 

It  was  perfectly  plain  that  you  had  a  certain  weak- 
ness for  that  daughter.  .  .  .  Why,  you  used  to  be 
quite  embarrassed  when  talking  of  her.  And  then 
you  have  been  telling  me  all  sorts  of  things  about 
her  that  you  would  never  have  cared  to  tell  other- 
wise. What  interest  could  I  have  in  the  pictures  of 
a  Countess  X-dividcd-b3'-anything,  for  instance — 
supposing  even  that  you  could  tell  her  lilacs  from 
her  laburnums  by  their  color?  And,  as  I  said,  my 
one  fear  was  that  she  might  be  too  young — as  my 
mother,  that  is,  and  not  as  your  wife.  Of  course, 
there  is  not  yet  anybody  too  young  or  beautiful  for 
3'ou.  But  now  I  can  tell  you,  papa,  that  she  suits 
me  absolutely  as  she  is. 

PRINCE 

Well,  if  you  are  not  the  most  impudent  rogue  I  ever 
came  across  .  .  .  !  Do  you  really  think  I  would 
ask  you,  if  I  should  ever  .  .   . 


302  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

PHILIP 

Not  exactly  ask,  papa  .   .  .  but  a  happy  family  life 
requires  that  all  the  members  affect  each  other  sym- 
pathetically .   .   .  don't  you  think  so? 
[Mizzle  and  Lolo  Langhuber  enter. 

MIZZIE 

You  must  look  around,  please.  I  am  sure  my  fa- 
ther would  be  very  sorry  to  miss  you.  {She  starts 
to   make   the  usual  introductions)      Permit  me   to 

•     •     • 

LOLO 

Oh,  Your  Highness. 

PEINCE 

Well,  Miss  Pallestri  .  .  . 

LOLO 

Langhuber,  if  you  please.     I  have  come  to  thank  the 
Count  for  the  magnificent  flowers  he  sent  me  at  my 
farewell  performance. 
PRINCE  (introducing) 

My  son  Philip.    And  this  is  Miss  .  .  . 

LOLO 

Chariorta  Langhuber. 
PEINCE  (to  Philip) 

Better  known  as  Miss  Pallestri. 

PHILIP 

Oh,  Miss  Pallestri!  Then  I  have  already  had  the 
pleasure  .   .  . 

PEINCE 

What? 

PHILIP 

You  see,  I  have  Miss  Pallestri  in  my  collection. 

PEINCE 

What  .   .   .  what  sort  of  collection  is  that? 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  808 


L,OLO 


There  must  be  some  kind  of  mistake  here,  Your  High- 
ness.    I  can  not  recall  .   .   • 

PHILIP 

Of  course,  you  can't,  for  I  don't  suppose  you  could 
feel  that  I  was  cutting  out  your  picture  from  a 
newspaper  at  Krems? 

LOLO 

No,  thank  heaven! 

PHILIP 

It  was  one  of  our  amusements  at  school,  you  know. 
There  was  one  who  cut  out  all  the  crimes  and  dis- 
asters he  could  get  hold  of. 

LOLO 

What  a  dreadful  fellow  that  must  have  been! 

PHILIP 

And  there  was  one  who  went  in  for  historical  per- 
sonalities, like  North  Pole  explorers  and  composers 
and  that  kind  of  people.  And  I  used  to  collect  the- 
atrical ladies.  Ever  so  much  more  pleasant  to  look 
at,  you  know.  I  have  got  two  hundred  and  thirteen 
— which  I'll  show  you  sometime,  papa.  Quite  in- 
teresting, you  know.  With  a  musical  comedy  star 
from  Australia  among  the  rest. 

LOLO 

I  didn't  know  Your  Highness  had  a  son — and  such  a 
big  one  at  that. 

PHILIP 

Yes,  I  have  been  hiding  my  light  under  a  bushel  so 
far. 

PEINCE 

And  now  you  are  trying  to  make  up  for  it,  I  should 
say. 


304  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

LOLO 

Oh,  please  let  him,  Your  Highness.  I  prefer  young 
people  like  him  to  be  a  little  vif. 

PHILIP 

So  you  are  going  to  retire  to  private  life,  Miss 
Pallestri?  That's  too  bad.  Just  when  I  might  have 
the  pleasure  at  last  of  seeing  you  on  those  boards 
that  signify  the  world  .  .  . 

That's  awfully  kind  of  Your  Highness,  but  unfor- 
tunately one  hasn't  time  to  wait  for  the  youth  that's 
still  growing.  And  the  more  mature  ones  are  be- 
ginning to  find  my  vintage  a  little  out  of  date,  I  fear. 

PRINCE 

They  say  that  you  are  about  to  be  married. 

LOLO 

Yes,  I  am  about  to  enter  the  holy  state  of  matri- 
mony. 

PHILIP 

And  who  is  the  happy  man,  if  I  may  ask? 

LOLO 

Who  is  he?  Why,  he  is  waiting  outside  now — with 
that  carriage. 

MIZZIE 

Why — a  coachman? 

LOLO 

But,  Countess — a  coachman,  you  say  ?  !  Only  in  the 
same  manner  as  when  your  papa  himself — beg  your 
pardon! — happens  to  be  taking  the  bay  out  for  a 
spin  at  times.  Cab  owner,  that's  what  my  fiance  is 
— and  house  owner,  and  a  burgess  of  Vienna,  who 
gets  on  the  box  himself  only  when  it  pleases  him  and 
when  there  is  somebody  of  whom  he  thinks  a  whole 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  305 

lot.  Now  he  is  driving  for  a  certain  Baron  Ra- 
deiner — whom  he  has  just  brought  out  here  to  see 
your  father,  Countess.  And  I  am  having  my  doubts 
about  that  Baron  Radeincr. 

PHILIP 

Permit  me  to  introduce  myself — Baron  Radeiner. 

LOLO 

So  that's  you,  Your  Highness.? 

PHILIP 

I  have  let  nobody  but  Wasner  drive  me  since  I  came 
here. 

LOLO 

And  under  an  assumed  name  at  that,  Your  High- 
ness.''    Well,  we  are  finding  out  a  lot  of  nice  things 
about  you ! 
COUNT  (appears,  very  hot) 

Well,  here  I  am.     (Taking  in  the  situation)     Ah! 

LOLO 

Your  humble  servant.  Count!  I  have  taken  the  lib- 
erty— I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  the  magnificent 
flowers. 

COUNT 

Oh,  please — it  was  a  great  pleasure  .  .  . 

PRINCE 

And  here,  old  friend,  is  my  son  Philip. 

PHILIP 

I  regard  myself  as  greatly  honored.  Count. 
COUNT  (giving  his  hand  to  Philip) 

I  bid  you  welcome  to  my  house.  Please  consider 
yourself  at  home  here. — I  don't  think  any  further 
introductions  are  required. 

MIZZIE 

No,  papa. 


306  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

COUNT  {slightly  embarrassed) 

It's  very  charming  of  you,  my  dear  lady.  Of  course, 
you  know  better  than  anybody  that  I  have  always 
been  one  of  your  admirers.  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  please, 
how  in  the  world  did  you  get  out  here?  I  have  just 
been  taking  a  walk  along  the  main  road,  where  every 
carriage  has  to  pass,  and  I  didn't  see  you. 

LOLO 

What  do  you  take  me  for,  Count?  My  cab  days 
are  past  now.  I  came  by  the  train,  which  is  the 
proper  thing  for  me. 

COUNT 

I  see  .   .   .  But  I  hear  that  your  fiance  himself  .   .  . 

L0I.0 

Oh,  he  has  more  pretentious  customers  to  look  after. 

PHILIP 

Yes,  I  have  just  had  the  pleasure  of  being  conducted 
here  by  the  fiance  of  Miss  Pallestri. 

COUNT 

Is  Wasner  driving  for  you?     Well,  that  settles  it — 
of  course — clear  psychological  connection!     {Offers 
his  cigar  case)     Want  a  smoke? 
PHILIP  {accepting) 
Thank  you. 

PEINCE 

But,  Philip  .  .  .  !  A  monster  like  that  before 
lunch ! 

COUNT 

Excellent.     Nothing  better  for  the  health.     And  I 
like  you.     Suppose  we  sit  down. 
[^The  Count,  the  Prince  and  Philip  seat  themselves, 
"while  Mizzie  and  Lolo  remain  standing  close  to  them. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  307 

COUNT 

So  you'll  be  off  with  your  father  to-morrow? 

PHILIP 

Yes,  Count.  And  I'm  tremendously  pleased  to  think 
of  it. 

COUNT 

Will  you  be  gone  long? 

PRINCE 

That  depends  on  several  circumstances. 

PHILIP 

I  have  to  report  myself  at  the  regiment  on  the  first 
of  October. 

PKINCE 

And  it's  possible  that  I  may  go  farther  south  after 
that. 

COUNT 

Well,  that's  news.     Where? 
PRINCE  (with  a  glance  at  Mizzie) 

Egypt,  and  the  Sudan  maybe — for  a  little  hunting. 

MIZZIE  (to  Lolo) 

Let  me  show  you  the  park. 

LOLO 

It's  a  marvel.  Ours  isn't  a  patch  on  it,  of  course. 
(She  and  Mizzie  come  forward) 

MIZZLE 

Have  you  a  garden  at  your  place,  too? 

LOLO 

Certainly.  As  well  as  an  ancestral  palace — at  Ot- 
takring.^  The  great-grandfather  of  Wasner  was  in 
the  cab  business  in  his  days  already. — My,  but  that's 

^  One    of   the    factory    districts   of   Vienna,    known    chiefly    be- 
cause of  the  big  insane  asylum  located  there. 


308  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

beautiful !    The  way  those  flowers  are  hanging  down. 
I  must  have  something  just  like  it. 
COUNT  {disturbed) 

Why  are  the  ladies  leaving  us.'' 

MIZZIE 

Never  mind,  papa,  I'm  merely  explaining  the  archi- 
tecture of  our  fa9ade. 

PHILIP 

Do  you  often  get  visits  of  theatrical  ladies,  Count? 

COUNT 

No,  this  is  merely  an  accident. 

{The  men  stroll  off  toward  those  parts  of  the  gar- 
den that  are  not  visible. 

MIZZIE 

It   seems   strange   that   I   have  never  before  had   a 
chance  of  meeting  you.     I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. 
LOLO  {xvith  a  grateful  glance) 

And  so  I  am.  Of  course,  I  have  known  you  by  sight 
these  many  years.  Often  and  often  have  I  looked 
up  at  your  box. 

MIZZIE 

But  not  at  me. 

LOLO 

Oh,  that's  all  over  now. 

MIZZIE 

Do  you  know,  I  really  feel  a  little  offended — on  his 
behalf. 

Offended,  you  say  .  .   .    ? 

MIZZIE 

It  will  be  a  hard  blow  for  him.  Nobody  knows  bet- 
ter than  I  how  deeply  he  has  been  attached  to  you. 
Although  he  has  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  it. 


COUNTESS    iMIZZIE  309 


LOLO 

Do  jou  think  it's  so  very  easy  for  me  either, 
Countess?  But  tell  me,  Countess,  what  else  could  I 
do?  I  am  no  longer  a  spring  chicken,  you  know. 
And  one  can't  help  hankering  for  something  more 
settled.  As  long  as  I  had  a  profession  of  my  own,  I 
could  allow  myself — what  do  they  call  it  now? — to 
entertain  liberal  ideas.  It  goes  in  a  way  with  the 
position  I  have  held.  But  how  would  that  look  now, 
when  I  am  retiring  to  private  life? 

MIZZIE 

Oh,  I  can  see  that  perfectly.  But  what  is  he  going 
to  do  now? 

LOLO 

Why  shouldn't  he  marry,  too?  I  assure  you, 
Countess,  that  there  are  many  who  would  give  all 
their  five  fingers  .  .  .  Don't  you  realize,  Countess, 
that  I,  too,  have  found  it  a  hard  step  to  take? 

MIZZIE 

Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  wondering  often? 
Whether  he  never  thought  of  making  z/om  his  wife? 

LOLO 

Oh,  yes,  that's  just  what  he  wanted. 

MIZZIE 

Why  ...   ?! 

LOLO 

Do  you  know  when  he  asked  me.  the  last  time. 
Countess?    Less  than  a  month  ago. 

MIZZIE 

And  you  said  no? 

LOLO 

I  did.  It  would  have  done  no  good.  Me  a  Countess ! 
Can    you    imagine    it?      I    being    your    stepmother, 


310  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 


Countess  .   .   .    !    Then  we  could  not  have  been  chat- 
ting nicely  as  we  are  doing  now. 

MIZZIE 

If  you  only  knew  how   sympathetically  you   affect 
me  .  .  . 

LOLO 

But  I  don't  want  to  appear  better  than  I  am.  And 
who  knows  what  I  might  .   .   . 

MIZZIE 

What  might  you? 

LOLO 

Well,  this  is  the  truth  of  it.  I  have  gone  clear  off 
my  head  about  Wasner.  Which  I  hope  won't  make 
you  think  the  worse  of  me.  In  all  these  eighteen 
years  I  have  had  nothing  to  blame  myself  with,  as 
far  as  your  dear  papa  is  concerned.  But  you  can't 
wonder  if  my  feelings  began  to  cool  off  a  little  as  the 
years  passed  along.  And  rather  than  to  make 
your  dear  papa — oh,  no,  no,  Countess  ...  I  owe 
him  too  much  gratitude   for  that.  .  .   .  Lord! 

MIZZIE 

What  is  it.? 

LOLO 

There  he  is  now,  looking  right  at  me. 
MIZZIE  {looks  in  the  direction  indicated) 
WASNER  (who  has  appeared  at  the  entrance,  raises  his 

tall  hat  in  salute) 


LOLO 


Don't  you  think  me  an  awful  fool.  Countess  ?  Every 
time  I  catch  sight  of  him  suddenly,  my  heart  starts 
beating  like  everything.  Yes,  there's  no  fool  like 
an  old  one. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  311 


MIZZLE 

Old  .  .  .  ?  Do  you  call  yourself  old?  Why,  there 
can't  be  much  difference  between  us. 

I.OLO 

Oh,  mercy  .  .  .   (With  a  glance  at  Mizzie) 

MIZZIE 

I  am  thirty-seven. — No,  don't  look  at  me  with  any 
pity.     There  is  no  cause  for  that.     None  whatever. 
LOLo  {apparently  relieved) 

I  have  heard  some  whispers,  Countess — of  course,  I 
didn't  believe  anything.  But  I  thank  heaven  it  was 
true.      {They  shake  hands) 

MIZZIE 

I  should  like  to  congratulate  your  fiance  right  now, 
if  you'll  permit  me. 

LOLO 

That's  too  sweet  of  you — but  what  about  the  Count 
— perhaps  he  wouldn't  like  ....'' 

MIZZLE 

Mv  dear,  I  have  always  been  accustomed  to  do  as  I 
pleased.      {They  go  together  toward  the  entrance) 

WASNEU 

You're  too  kind,  Countess  .   .   . 

[The  Count,  the  Prince  and  Philip  have  reappeared 

in  the  meantime. 

COUNT 

Look  at  that,  will  j^ou ! 

WASNER 

Good  morning,  Count.     Good  morning.  Highness. 

PRINCE 

I  say,  Wasner,  you  may  just  as  well  take  your  bride 
home  in  that  trap  of  yours.  My  son  is  coming  with 
me. 


312  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

WASNER 

Your  son  .  .  .   ? 

PHILIP 

Why  haven't  you  told  me  that  you  were  engaged, 
Wasner? 

WASNER 

Well,  there  are  things  you  haven't  told  either  .   .   . 
Mr.  von  Radeiner ! 
COUNT  (to  Lolo) 

Thank  you  very  much  for  your  friendly  visit,  and 
please  accept  my  very  best  wishes. 

LOLO 

The  same  to  you.  Count.    And  I  must  say,  that  when 
one  has  such  a  daughter  .   .  . 

MIZZIE 

It's  too  bad  I  haven't  come  to  know  you  before. 

LOLO 

Oh,  really.  Countess  .   .   . 

MIZZIE 

Once  more,  my  dear  Miss  Lolo,  good  luck  to  you ! 
(Mizzie  embraces  Lolo) 
COUNT  {looks  on  with  surprise  and  some  genuine  emo- 
tion) 

LOLO 

I   thank   you    for    the   kind   reception.   Count — and 
good-by ! 

COUNT 

Good-by,  Miss  Langhubcr.     I  trust  you'll  be  happy 

.  .   .  indeed  I  do,  Lolo. 
LOLO  (gets  into  the  carriage  which  has  driven  up  to 

the  gate  in  the  meantime) 
WASNER  (is  on  the  box,  hat  in  hand;  they  drive  off) 
MIZZIE.  (waves  her  hand  at  them  as  they  disappear) 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  313 


PHILIP  {who  has  been  standing  in  the  foreground  with 
the  Prince)  Oh,  my  dear  papa,  I  can  see  through 
the  whole  story. 

PRINCE 

You  can? 

PHILIP 

This  Miss  Lolo  must  be  the  natural  daughter  of  the 
Count,  and  a  sister  of  the  Countess — her  foster-sis- 
ter, as  they  say. 

PRINCE 

No,  you  would  call  that  a  step-sister.  But  go  on, 
Mr.  Diplomat. 

PHILIP 

And  of  course,  both  are  in  love  with  you — both  the 
Countess  and  the  ballet  dancer.  And  this  marriage 
between  the  dancer  and  Wasner  is  your  work. 

PRINCE 

Go  on. 

PHILIP 

You  know — there's  something  I  never  thought  of 
until  just  now! 

PRINCE 

What? 

PHILIP 

I  don't  know  if  I  dare? 

PRINCE 

Why  so  timid  all  at  once? 

PHILIP 

Supposing  my  mother  was  not  dead  .  .  . 

PRINCE 

H'm  .  .  . 

PHILIP 

And,  through  a  remarkable  combination  of  circum- 


314  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

stances,  she  should  now  be  going  back  to  the  city  in 
the  very  carriage  that  brought  me  out  here  .  .  .  ? 
And  suppose  it  should  be  my  own  mother,  whose 
picture  I  cut  out  of  that  newspaper  .   .   .    ? 

PRINCE 

My  lad,  you'll  certainly  end  as  a  cabinet  minister — 
Secretary   of   Agriculture,   if   nothing  better. — But 
now  it's  time  for  us  to  say  good-by. 
\^The  Count  and  Mizzie  are  coming  forward  again. 

PRINCE 

Well,  my  dear  friend,  this  must  be  our  farewell  call, 
I  am  sorry  to  say. 

COUNT 

But  why  don't  you  stay  .  .  .  That  would  be  de- 
lightful ...  if  you  could  take  lunch  with  us  .   .   . 

PRINCE 

Unfortunately,  it  isn't  possible.  We  have  an  ap- 
pointment at  Sacher's.^ 

COUNT 

That's  really  too  bad.  And  shall  I  not  see  you  at 
all  during  the  Summer? 

PRINCE 

Oh,  we  shall  not  be  entirely  out  of  touch. 

COUNT 

And  are  you  starting  to-morrow  already.? 

PRINCE 

Yes. 

COUNT 

Where  are  you  going.'* 

PRINCE 

To  the  sea  shore — Ostend. 

^  A    fashionable    restaurant   near    the    Imperial    Palace   in    the 
Inner  City. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  315 

COUNT 

Oh,  you  are  bound  for  Ostend.  I  have  long  wanted 
to  go  there. 

PRIXCE 

But  tliat  would  be  fine  .   .   . 

COUNT 

What  do  you  think,  Mizzie?  Let's  be  fashionable. 
Let's  go  to  Ostend,  too. 

MIZZIE 

I  can't  answer  yet.  But  there's  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  go,  papa. 

PHILIP 

That  would  be  delightful,  Countess.     It  would  please 

me  awfully. 
MIZZIE  {smiling) 

That's  very  kind   of  you,  Philip.      {She  holds  out 

her  hand  to  him) 
PHILIP  {kisses  her  hand) 
COUNT  {to  the  Prince) 

The  children  seem  to  get  along  beautifully. 

PRINCE 

Yes,  that's  what  I  have  been  thinking.  Good-by 
then.  Good-by,  my  dear  Mizzie.  And  good-by  to 
you,  my  dear  old  fellow.  I  hope  at  least  to  sOe  you 
again  at  Ostend. 

COUNT 

Oh,  she'll  come  along.     Won't  you,  Mizzie?     After 
all,  you  can  get  studios  by  the  sea  shore,  too.     Or 
how  about  it,  Mizzie.'^ 
MIZZIE  {remains  silent) 

PEINCE 

Well,  until  we  meet  again!  {He  shakes  hands  mth 
the  Count  and  Mizzie) 


316  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

PHILIP  {kisses  the  hand  of  Mizzle  once  more) 

COUNT  {giving  his  hand  to  Philip) 
It  has  been  a  great  pleasure. 

\^The  Prince  and  Philip  go  out  through  the  gate  and 
step  into  the  carriage  which  has  been  driving  up  in 
the  meantime,  and  which  now  carries  them  off.  The 
Count  and  Mizzie  come  forward  again  and  seat 
themselves  at  the  table  under  the  tree.    Pause. 

COUNT 

Hasn't  this  been  a  queer  day? 

MIZZLE 

All  life  is  queer — only  we  forget  it  most  of  the  time. 

COUNT 

I  suppose  you're  right.      {Pause) 

MIZZIE 

You  know,  papa,  you  might  just  as  well  have 
brought  us  together  a  little  earlier. 

COUNT 

Who.''     Oh,  you  and  .  .  . 

MIZZIE 

Me  and  Miss  Lolo.     She's  a  dear. 

COUNT 

So  you  like  her?  Well,  if  it  were  only  possible  to 
know  in  advance  .  .  .  But  what's  the  use?  Now  it's 
all  over. 

MIZZIE  {takes  hold  of  his  hand) 

COUNT  {rises  and  kisses  her  on  the  forehead;  strolls 
about  aimlessly  for  a  few  seconds)  Tell  me,  Mizzie, 
what  you  think  .  .  .  How  do  you  like  the  boy? 

MIZZIE 

Philip?     Oh,  rather  fresh. 

COUNT 

Fresh,   perhaps,   but   smart.      I   hope   he'll   stay   in 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  317 

the  army.  That's  a  much  more  sensible  career  than 
the  diplomatic  service.  Slow,  but  sure.  All  you 
need  is  to  live  long  enough  in  order  to  become  a  gen- 
eral. But  a  political  career  .  .  .  Now  look  at 
Egon  .  .  .  three  times  he  has  almost  become  a  min- 
ister .  .  .  And  suppose  he  had  succeeded.''  (Walk- 
ing hack  and  forth)  Yes,  yes  ...  we  shall  be 
rather  lonely  this  Summer. 

MIZZIE 

But  why  shouldn't  you  go  to  Ostend,  papa.? 

COUNT 

Yes,  why  not  ....''  Really,  won't  you  come  along? 
It  would  be  rather  .  .  .  without  you,  you  know. 
.  .  .  It's  no  use  looking  at  me  like  that.  I  know !  I 
haven't  paid  as  much  attention  to  you  in  the  past  as 
I  should  have  .  .  . 
MIZZIE  (taking  his  hand  again) 

Oh,  papa,  you're  not  going  to  apologize,  are  you.'* 
I  understand  perfectly. 

COUNT 

Oh,  well.  But,  you  see,  I  shall  not  get  much  joy  out 
of  that  trip  without  you.  And  what  would  you  be 
doing  here,  all  by  yourself.''  You  can't  paint  all  day 
long. 

MIZZIE 

The  only  trouble  is  .  .  .  the  Prince  has  asked  me 
to  marry  him. 

COUNT 

What.''  Is  it  possible?  No,  you  don't  mean  .  .  . 
And  .  .  .  and  you  said  no? 

MIZZIE 

Practically. 


318  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

COUNT 

You  did  .  .  .  ?  Oh,  well  .  .  .  After  all,  I  have 
never  tried  to  persuade  you.  It  must  be  as  you  .  .  . 
But  I  can't  understand  why.  I  have  noticed  for  a 
long  time,  that  he  .  .  .  As  far  as  age  is  concerned, 
you  wouldn't  be  badly  matched.  And  as  for  the 
rest  .  .  .  sixty  millions  are  not  to  be  despised  ex- 
actly. But  just  as  you  say. 
MIZZIE  {remains  silent) 

COUNT 

Or  could  it  possibly  be  on  account  of  the  boy.?  That 
would  be  to  exaggerate  the  matter,  I  assure  you. 
Things  of  that  kind  occur  in  the  very  best  families. 
And  particularly  when  you  consider  that  his  heart 
always  remained  with  his  wife  .  .  .  All  of  a  sudden 
you  get  dragged  into  an  affair  of  that  kind  without 
exactly  knowing  how. 

MIZZIE 

And  some  poor  girl  of  the  people  is  thrown  aside 
and  allowed  to  go  to  the  dogs. 

COUNT 

Oh,  please,  that's  only  in  the  books.  And  how  could 
he  help  it?  That  kind  of  women  seem  always  to  die 
off  early.  And  who  knows  what  he  might  have  done, 
if  she  hadn't  died.  ...  I  really  think  that  his  ac- 
tion in  regard  to  the  boy  has  been  pretty  decent. 
That  took  courage,  you  know.  I  could  tell  you  more 
than  one  case.  .  .  .  But  don't  let  us  talk  of  it.  If 
that  should  be  the  only  thing  against  him,  however 
.  .  .  And  besides,  our  being  together  at  Ostend 
wouldn't  commit  you  in  any  way. 

MIZZIE 

No,  that's  true. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  319 

COUNT 

Well,  then  ...  I  tell  you  what.  You  malce  the 
trip  with  me.  And  if  the  place  suits  you,  you  can 
stay.  If  not,  you  can  go  on  to  London  for  a  visit 
with  Aunt  Lora.  I  mean  simply,  that  there  is  no 
sense  in  your  letting  me  go  away  alone. 

MIZZIE 

AU  right. 

COUNT 

What  do  you  mean? 

MIZZIE 

I'll  go  with  you.  But  without  any  obligation — ab- 
solutely free. 

COUNT 

You'll  come  with  me,  you  say? 

MIZZIE 

I  will,  papa. 

COUNT 

Oh,  I'm  SO  glad.     Thank  you,  Mizzie. 

MIZZIE 

Why  should  you  thank  me?     It's  a  pleasure  to  me. 

COUNT 

You  can't  imagine,  of  course  .  .  .  without  you, 
Mizzie  .  .  .  There  would  be  so  much  to  remember — 
this  time  in  particular  .  .  .  You  know,  of  course, 
that  I  took  Lolo  to  Normandy  last  year? 

MIZZIE 

Of  course,  I  know  .   .   . 

COUNT 

And  as  far  as  Egon  is  concerned  .  .  .  not  that  I 
want  to  persuade  you  by  any  means  .  .  .  but  in  a 
strange    place    like    that    you    often    get    more    ac- 


320  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 

quainted  with  a  person  in  a  couple  of  days  than  dur- 
ing many  years  at  home. 

MIZZIE 

It's  settled  now  that  I  go  with  you,  papa.  And  as  for 
the  rest,  don't  let  us  talk  of  it — for  the  time  being. 

COUNT 

Then,  you  know,  I'm  going  to  telephone  to  the  ticket 
office  at  once  and  reserve  sleeping  car  compartments 
for  the  day  after  to-morrow — or  for  to-morrow. 

MIZZIE 

Are  you  in  such  a  hurry? 

COUNT 

What's  the  use  of  sitting  about  here,  once  we  have 
made  up  our  minds?  So  I'll  telephone  .  .  .  Does 
that  suit  you? 

MIZZIE 

Yes. 
COUNT  (puts  his  arms  about  her) 
PROFESSOR  wiNDHOFER  {appears  at  the  garden  gate) 

COUNT 

Why,  there's  the  professor.  Have  you  a  lesson  to- 
day? 

MIZZIE 

I  had  forgotten  it,  too. 
PROFESSOR  (handsome;  about  thirty-five;  his  beard  is 
blond  and  trimmed  to  a  point;  he  is  very  carefully 
dressed,  and  wears  a  gray  overcoat;  he  takes  off  his 
hat  as  he  enters  the  garden  and  comes  forward) 
Good  morning,  Countess.    How  do  you  do,  Count? 

COUNT 

Good  morning,  my  dear  Professor,  and  how  are  you? 
You  have  to  pardon  me.  I  was  just  about  to  go 
to  the  telephone — we  are  going  away,  you  know. 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  321 


PROFESSOR 

Oh,  are  you  going  away?     Please,  don't  let  me  de- 
tain you. 

COUNT 

I  suppose  I   shall  see   you  later.   Professor.      (He 
goes  into  the  house) 

PROFESSOR 

So  you  are  going  away,  Countess? 

MIZZIE 

Yes,  to  Ostend. 

PEOFESSOR, 

That's  rather  a  sudden  decision. 

MIZZIE 

Yes,  rather.    But  that's  my  way. 

PKOFESSOR 

That  means  an  end  to  the  lessons  for  the  present,  I 
suppose?     Too  bad. 

MIZZIE 

I  don't  think  I  shall  be  able  to-day  even  ...  I  am 
feeling  a  little  upset. 

PROFESSOR 

Do  you.? — Well,  you  look  rather  pale,  Maria. 

MIZZIE 

Oh,  you  think  so? 

PROFESSOR 

And  how  long  will  you  be  gone? 

MIZZIE 

Until  the  Fall  probably — perhaps  until  very  late  in 
the  Fall  even. 

PROFESSOR 

Then  wc  can  resume  our  lessons  next  November  at 
the  earliest,  I  suppose? 


322  COUNTESS    MIZZIE 


MizziE  (smiling) 

I  don't  think  we  shall  .   .  . 

PKOFESSOK, 

Oh,  you  don't  think,  so?     (They  look  hard  at  each 
other) 

MIZZIE 

No,  I  don't. 

PROFESSOR 

Which  means,  Maria — that  I  am  discharged. 

MIZZIE 

How  can  you  put  it  that  way,  Rudolph?     That  is 
not  quite  fair. 

PROFESSOR 

Pardon  me.     But  it  really  came  a  little  more  sud- 
denly than  I  had  expected. 

MIZZIE 

Better  that  than  have  it  come  too  slow.     Don't  you 
think  so? 

PROFESSOR 

Well,  girl,  I  have  no  intention  whatever  to  make  any 
reproaches. 

MIZZIE 

Well,  you  have  no  reason.     And  it  wouldn't  be  nice 
either.     (She  holds  out  her  hand  to  him) 
PROFESSOR  (takes  her  hand  and  kisses  it) 
Will  you  please  excuse  me  to  the  Count? 

MIZZIE 

Are  you  going  already  .  .  .    ? 
PROFESSOR  (unconcernedly) 

Isn't  that  better? 
MIZZIE  (after  a  pause,  during  which  she  looks  straight 

into  his  eyes)    Yes,  I  think  so.     (They  shake  hands) 


COUNTESS    MIZZIE  323 

PROFESSOR 

Good  luck,  Maria. 

MIZZIE 

Same  to  you.  .  .  .  And  remember  me  to  your  wife 
and  the  children. 

PROFESSOR 

I  won't  forget.  Countess.     {He  goes  out) 
MIZZIE   {remains  on  the  same  spot  for  a  little  while, 

following  him  with  her  eyes) 
COUNT  {on  the  terrace) 

Everything  is  ready.  We'll  leave  at  nine-thirty  to- 
morrow night. — But  what  has  become  of  the  pro- 
fessor.'' 

MIZZIE 

I  sent  him  away. 

COUNT 

Oh,  you  did.'' — And  can  you  guess  who  has  the  com- 
partment between  yours  and  mine.''  .  .  .  Egon  and 
his  young  gentleman.  Won't  they  be  surprised 
though? 

MIZZIE 

Yes  .  .  .  won't  they.'*     {She  goes  into  the  house) 

CURTAIN 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


^UL 1 7 1986 


0 


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1988 


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616 


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1979 

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